The Daughter of Iron
by Samyo
Summary: When Shireen Baratheon was born, her presence in the line of succession was purely ceremonial. By the time her father took the Iron Throne, she was suddenly the Lady of Dragonstone. Shireen POV. Sansa/Stannis. AU fic.
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: I own nothing, the only profit is in experience only.

Author's Note: The is an AU, therefore, my rules.

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I was brought to King's Landing a few months after the wedding. They say my father insisted, but I knew better; it was the new Queen. Though I didn't particularly care for Dragonstone, the Red Keep seemed torturous in comparison. But then, I told myself, still a little girl, that things would be different this time. My father was King Stannis, Ruler of the 7 Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm. I was now Shireen Baratheon, Lady of Dragonstone, thus heir to my father's throne. It would be very different from when my father was just the Master of Ships and me an my mother were barely even tolerated by him, let alone the court.

The thought of possibly being a queen terrified me. When I was older, I was asked if I was ever angry about my father taking a new wife, essentially removing any chance of me ascending the throne, that of course in the case a viable male heir was produced. My answer: No, and if anything, the marriage liberated me from the thankless burden of ruling a kingdom. Kings and queens are neither feared nor loved, they are just simply tolerated until they are removed naturally or violently from this earth. Men are so easily tarnished and poisoned in the presence of ambition, and women acting on what must be done are often accused of carrying out a personal agenda.

When I was born, my presence in the line of succession was purely ceremonial. By the time my father took the Iron Throne, I was suddenly the only heir in House Baratheon. I later learned there was talk of trying to legitimize Gendry, considered the only surviving bastard son of King Robert, but since he was unacknowledged for so long, his claim would not hold water. I had never received any special instruction in regards to ruling a kingdom, or in anything at all for that matter.

I was just the little girl that was supposed to have died so many years ago, and was now cursed to exist as a survivor of the Greyscale; even the Wildings agreed that I was not supposed to exist. I will always remember the way Queen Cersei used to stare at me, at my face, my neck, like I was a wounded faun that should just be put out of its misery. The red woman, I know she had similar feelings, but she was much better at hiding them. My mother was indifferent for between her devotion to the Lord of Light, the failure of her political marriage, the failure to give my father a proper heir, my disfigurement didn't matter. She was a loving mother, just very distant; I blame her circumstances, not her herself for this.

The King's Hand was the one in charge of escorting me to the Red Keep; I know that my father was the one who insisted on this. Ser Davos was the one man my father could hold in highest confidence, and though my father would be the last to admit it, he was the one man he trusted with the security of his family. He was accompanied by his wife, Lady Marya, a sweet woman and mother of his 7 sons, 5 who served my father. Two had died during the war, one horrifically at Blackwater.

She told me to only pack enough clothes for the journey. My wardrobe wasn't exactly fit for a princess; it was fit for a little girl used to being tucked away from sight. She tactfully produced a head scarf for me to wear, and though absolutely gorgeous, fit for a princess even, I silently questioned the real motive.

"They're becoming quite the fashion again due to the foreigners that came to help your father, not that I'm complaining. Her Highness, Queen Sansa, your stepmother, even showed me how to do a style I think your ladyship might quite fancy." This was the first time anyone truly ever tried to do anything with my hair, let alone make me fashionable.

"What is the Queen like?" I asked as she smoothed my thin black hair before moving it all over my left shoulder, I guess to help the scarf hide the Greyscale.

"Older beyond her years; saw her father executed not a few feet from her," she pauses to grab a hairpin, "and she was betrothed to that monster, King Joffrey, among other things. They say when your father's forces took the Red Keep, while Queen Cersei and the others hid like the cowards they were for the guards had already abandoned them, Lady Sansa stood there by herself," she paused to start manipulating the head scarf. I wait for her to continue, but she is caught up in her work.

"She met my father's guards all by herself?"

"Your father, and his guards, all by herself. Standing in some hallway on the way to the Iron Throne. And you know what she said to your father?" she tugs at my hair as she secures the shawl, "Cersei is in the throne room, my Lord."

"That's it?"

"Like she was handing Cersei's head over herself on a silver plater. Davos said she spoke like she was already dead inside; Lannisters convinced everyone your father would slaughter the whole of King's Landing. Your father and my Davos, some others also I imagine, went to fetch Cersei, and her half-brother, Jon Snow, he joined your father when he helped fight the troubles at The Wall, stayed with her, tried to get the light back into her eyes."

Marya grabs a mirror and shows it to me smiling; the shawl doesn't make me look beautiful, but it does make me look like someone who could possibly be called a princess. I am styled for the left side of my face and neck to be obscured, and thankfully my right ear is partially covered so no one has to know how big my ears truly are.

"The Queen has seen things beyond her years, saw horrors no one is ever suppose to see, but it hasn't turned her bitter. And I should mention she's not dead in the eyes anymore; once she knew your father wasn't go to have have her killed, like your father would ever kill Ned Stark's daughter, and he used his powers as Kings to sever any holds the Lannister's had on her, she started acting what I guess would be called normal again. She has only ever been sweet and patient with me, and she even pestered your father on what shade of blue your eyes were and picked out the scarf herself."

I giggled at the thought of my father being subjected to such lines of questioning. She must not have feared him, or she did but hid it well, or maybe he tried to not be so fearful around her. I know it wasn't like in the stories I read where the King marries for love; he married for male heir, and to help heal a bleeding kingdom.

"So is she a good queen, then?" I asked Marya.

"She performs all the courtesies necessitated by the court like a good queen. Around the King, she is carefully blunt like a good queen should be for him, not necessarily others," she says with a smirk. Her face then becomes more serious, "Queen Sansa will not be evil towards you if that's what you're really asking."

I was.

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	2. Chapter 2

Disclaimer: I still own nothing.

Author's Note: Still AU, still my rules, still my universe.

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I have memories of playing underneath The Painted Table when I was little, very little. They are faint, so very faint, I thought they were created by my imagination to feed an illusion of a happy home life, not that I didn't get to experience one later on.

"It seems like yesterday you were just playing with your dollies, hiding from your mother's ladies underneath there," Davos tells me as I gaze at the table before we departed for my father's court. "Sometimes, I thought your father truly didn't know you were under there, but when it was time for him to hold important council, he'd tell you to go to your mother without missing a step."

My father was never the type to openly dote on his daughter, whether in public or only in the presence of family. Under the circumstances of my parents marriage, this was probably for the best; it saved me from being a pawn in any sort of power struggle. My mother, never the great beauty, never the great mind, never the great strategist, she still had the ambition.

It was the worst type of ambition. An ambition that had laid dormant for years, then slowly simmered, pulsed, and even if it were allowed to explode in full capacity, there was no hope for it to improve her situation. In the time between Joffrey's ascension to the Iron Throne and her death, she had only managed to accentuate her short comings.

"My great-grandmother was a Targaryen," I mutter under my breath. The Painted Table did not only represent a plan of attack for a conquerer, but was a testament of the ambitions of one of the bloodlines that gave rise to me. It was not an easy association, for though this blood gave my uncle King Robert the necessary validity in his claim for the throne, it also meant confirming that we did in fact share blood ties with the Mad King.

One of my greatest fears at the possibility of becoming queen was being compared to the Mad King, or being broken down and maimed until I became the Mad Queen.

"I believe, my Lady, you are even a direct descendant from the man who commissioned this to be built. On this very table, he planned out his conquering of Westeros." I nodded in acknowledgement and turned to leave the room, Davos following close behind me.

As we walked down a flight of stairs, I asked, "Do you think anyone will ever commission such a table be built at the Red Keep, Ser Davos?"

"Well, it is true that the kingdom is still fractured, still bleeding as your father likes to say." Though my father was now on the Iron Throne, many still did not recognize him as the King. At this point, even the Lannisters were still desperately trying to portray their King Tommen as the King Tommen. "On the other hand, I believe your father would rather have the craftsman required instead serving his armies."

Lady Marya greeted as at the bottom and asked if there was anyone I needed to say goodbye to. "Not that you might never come back here; the war is still on and we could be back here in a month for all we know." Davos is a bit annoyed with this, but Marya is savvy enough to know she is right. When word got out of an impeding siege of Dragonstone, my father immediately ordered for my mother and I's evacuation towards Castle Black. It was during this my mother became truly ill with the sickness that ended up taking her life. I'm not even sure how actually North we got; it seemed like we were just moving East to West, West to East most of the time. Right after my mother died, Dragonstone was suddenly safe again, and I was sent back.

During the whole war, I was never in any real noticeable danger, and pains were taken to shelter me from any sort of associated unpleasantry of the conflict. My father, shortly after I gave birth to my first child, Arya, told me I was sent back to Dragonstone so if necessary, I could be smuggled out to Essos by an old associate of Davos. My father wasn't sure he could take the throne until the girl with dead eyes and auburn hair pointed him towards Queen Cersei.

"Duty to one's King and people does not wash out duty to one's family, and duty to one's family does not wash out duty to one's King and people," my father told me solemnly as my husband cradled Arya in his arms on the other side of the room.

As we reached the fresh air, I replied to Marya, "I already said goodbye." It was a lie. Anyone worth saying goodby to was already dead or was already at King's Landing.

"Then your ship awaits, Princess." I could hear the smile in Davos' voice, even detect a sense of pride. I know it always bothered him how I was always hidden away or brushed aside or both. I was never around Marya longer than a moment until my mother's death, but I wouldn't be surprised if she shared her husband's thoughts on my situation. Marya took my hand as we made our way to the ship, the wind blowing at our dresses and my scarf.

"I hope Steffon hasn't been pestering the crew with questions," Marya tells her husband, "and I hope Stannis hasn't been climbing the sails again." Davos gives out a hearty laugh at this.

"Imagine what they'd be up to if left at King's Landing." Marya scoffs at this, causing Davos to laugh harder.

As the ship left dock, I sat next to Marya and her boys on the deck, and I remember looking at Dragonstone as it got smaller, and smaller, and finally disappeared from view. With it I let the memories of The Seven being burned by the Red Woman fade away. I let any thought of loneliness or being a burden fade away. I let the shadow of my mother fade away.

A sense of relief began to sweep over me, and as Steffon invited me to play a made up game with him and his brother, I was even starting to feel happy. As we ran around the deck, the crew smiling occasionally at our antics, and not staring at my scars, I felt like a normal little girl on her way to being reunited with her father.

I can honestly say at that moment, I was perfectly content with the idea of never stepping foot on Dragonstone ever again.

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	3. Chapter 3

Disclaimer: Own nothing.  
Author's Note: AU fic.

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I could see King's Landing in the distance as Marya did my hair, this time braiding some of it like they do in the North.

"Personally, I thought those Southern styles of piling everything on top was getting a bit ridiculous. My hair never wanted to grow out that long, so I ended up doing a variation of Northern style anyway." She periodically looks at her sons fidgeting in the corner of the cabin. Davos was called up on deck to help navigate the wreckage of old and new.

"There's been so much fighting over so long," he grumbled before going up, "the currents aren't living up to their reputations. We've been having to divert ships to secondary ports and cart everything into the city. We don't have enough men to clear the harbor; we're overwhelmed trying to repair the damage to gates and walls due to Blackwater, let alone the sieges that came after."

I looked up to Marya, "The Queen is from the North."

"Yes she is," she grits through teeth holding a hairpin or two.

"Is that a bad thing?" I ask as she turns my head so I'm facing forward again.

"I don't think so. The winter gives an edge to them that some people, Southerns in particular, don't like. In times like these, a Northern Queen is what we need."

"What do you mean?"

"If it isn't winter, winter is coming. You have to live in the now, survive in the now. You can't waste time."

"Sounds like Father." Marya laughed at this as she started to work with the head scarf.

"Well, the King has never struck me as a Southerner. He was born here, raised here, his kin were all here. Maybe it was because the Gods, God, whoever is in charge of such things, knew what he would have to do. The Queen, from what little bits I've heard, seemed to be a bit like your father in that she would strike you as Southerner under the right circumstances and not a Northerner."

"Like they're opposites?" I asked as she secures the scarf, making sure it hides just the right amount of my scars. One thing I later learned in life is that after wars, especially the one that caused my father's ascension to King, everyone of all walks of life gets scars. The crew on our ship, many showed signs of sever burnings on their faces, necks, and arms; I assumed this was from the Wildfire. Scars meant you were a survivor of a nightmare, and you learned to wear it like a badge of honor.

"I would say that the Queen holds the balance with the King." She winks at me, "That is a very good thing where a marriage is concerned. Most people are oblivious to such things, but I have a good set of eyes, and a good set of ears. Your father will never know how lucky he is with a marriage that happened in such times as these, a political one, nonetheless."

Till the day I die, I will always hate the term "political marriage". All marriages are political in nature; love and allegiance are surprisingly interchangeable.

"She has red hair, lovely red hair. It grows long, but right now its just a little above the shoulders because Cersei, in a fit of hysteria, chopped it off right before your Father breeched the gates with his armies. Perhaps someday you will grow close enough that you can ask her what she said to Cersei that made her go into such a state, and then tell me as fast as you can," she says smiling. "She has blue eyes, light blue eyes, and fair skin like yours, maybe a few more more freckles. She's tallish, and too thin."

"She was a prisoner of war. Everyone knows they're not fat," Steffon chimes in, being immediately shushed by his mother and sending his brother into a burst of giggles.

"He gets that from his father's side, not mine. Anyway, where was I? Yes, she's too thin, right now, but she is healthy, not frail like your mother was. Your mother should never have been put in a marriage where a male heir was so important; she was on death's doorstep after she had you, let alone the others, the poor babes. The Queen doesn't have the ideal build for carrying the child, her labor would be long and hard and painful, but she could do it, will do it, and I wouldn't be surprised if she was out and about a few hours afterwards like nothing happened."

"Why would you say that?"

"Her grace is a fighter, not just a survivor. She's definitely stronger than she looks, physically and in the mind. Good qualities for a queen in times of war. And in peace, I think she will still be well suited. Now then," she motioned for me stand up so she could judge my whole appearance.

My dress was yellow with red ornamentation and trim, to go with my father's banner, the stag and the flaming heart. The under-layer was blue, matching my head scarf. The only jewelery was a circlet of silver and gold and pearls; it looked like the artisan couldn't decide whether his inspiration came from the antlers of the stag or the flames of the fire.

"You look lovely, Princess Shireen." She maneuvered me so I was standing in front of the small mirror in the cabin. I did not look like the sickly, scared Shireen; I looked like the exotic, mysterious Shireen. Perhaps it was the Targaryen blood being allowed to show through, or I was just finally in a good dress; my mother and her ladies never really bothered when it came to dressing me, even at court.

We went to join Davos on the deck; I could clearly see the damage and wreckage he talked of earlier. Men worked at the overwhelming task of breaking down and removal, though some stopped and waved at our passing vessel.

Even though Marya held my hand in reassurance, I stalled on the stairwell, somewhat trapping Stannis and Steffon behind me.

"What is it, my Lady?"

I was remembering the last time I was in the presence of the Queen at King's Landing, Queen Cersei and her hateful staring eyes. I took a breath and went out onto the deck, and I looked towards the docks, draped in the banners of my father. Stannis pointed to the where my father stood, on a stone stairway, I guess so he could have a better vantage point. It made me feel like he actually wanted to see me; it seemed like years since the last time he saw me.

When Davos waved at the small crowd at the docks, I saw the King take the hand of a woman and walk with her down the stairs. It reminded me of how he use to escort my mother when he was the Master of Ships, when we traveled to and from Dragonstone, but this seemed different for some reason. He seemed to look at this wife more, making sure she didn't fall down the steps. I was too young to consider the possibility of her already being with child, which turned out not to be the case anyway. When they finally got to the bottom, my father seemed less tense, though I guess it would look bad for any King if his Queen went tumbling down the stairs.

"I can see the Queen now, too," Steffon pointed out like only a child could. Marya positioned me on the deck so those awaiting my arrival could possibly begin to catch a glimpse. I could now see the gold crown my father wore, and partially make out the crown of Queen Sansa, a smaller version of my father's. Her dress was the color of the roses; the only color my father wore was the gold on his cloak.

As we departed the ship, Davos offered his arm to me as we made our way to be greeted by the King and Queen, Marya and the boys following closely behind. If it wasn't for his arm, I think I would have teetered over due to nerves; he must have felt my shaking. The Queen may have been smiling, though I could of imagined it to make me feel better; I definitely know my father wasn't smiling.

"One foot in front of the other, Princess Shireen." Though Davos meant it as encouragement, I instead focused my eyes on the ground, the way I learned to in the presence of Queen Cersei. We walked, and walked, walking forever it seemed like until we came to a stop, my eyes then focused on stone and earth.

"Stannis of the House of Baratheon of Dragonstone," Davos' voice boomed, "the First of His Name, King of the Andals and First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm. Queen Sansa, Lady of Winterfell, Daughter of the North and Riverlands. I present Princess Shireen of House Baratheon of Dragonstone, Lady of Dragonstone."

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	4. Chapter 4

Discalimer: Own nothing.

Author's Note: AU fic.

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"Your graces," I curtseyed for the King and Queen, still looking at the ground. Except for the workmen repairing the city gates and walls not far off from the docks, it was silent where we stood. Slowly, I heard my father step towards me, and I felt his hands on my shoulders, gripping them, slightly, as he bent down, slightly. I felt so small in his presence; the confidence of exotic, mysterious Shireen was fleeting. I almost jumped when his gloved hand held my chin, forcing me to look up at him directly.

He looked older, but it wasn't a natural older. His face was more weathered from the heat of distant Wildfire and the brutal colds winds of a Northern winter. There were more tiny scars from shrapnel cuts and ember burns. Wrinkles denoting stress, anger, desperation were more pronounced, though his face overall was the most relaxed I had ever seen him. His hair was thinner but not grayer, his cheeks a bit more hollowed, but his eyes were still the same.

His expression struck me odd at first; it was like he was trying to look into me to find something, something important. Then there was a flicker in his eye; if he was like my uncles Robert or Renly, he would have been smiling.

"Your hair's grown long."

I smiled from ear to ear, probably being taken as either an idiot or insane by the small crowd consisting of members of the court and guard. Davos was probably the only one who had any clue what was happening, since he was the only one present who ever had a real glimpse of the domestic, family side of the Baratheon of Dragonstone household.

My mother would never let me grow out my hair for whatever reason; it was only ever allowed to grow long enough for it to be pulled back. I don't know if it was due to a crock maester or my mother wanting to show off the greyscale in order to get some sympathy for either herself or our general situation at Dragonstone. Judging from a look my father gave me when I was six, when I was in tears because my mother would never let me have long hair like my cousin Myrcella, I think it did bother him on some level, though he would never intervene in such feminine matters.

"I think you may have also gotten a bit taller."

"Three inches, Your Grace," I answered softly but loud enough for him to hear. It had been over a year, perhaps approaching two years, since he had time, or was even there, to look at me. I was also at that age where it seemed my body wanted to grow all at the same time, causing me to wake up with achy bones in my legs some mornings.

His jaw twitched a little bit, like he wanted to smile but his face had forgotten how to so very long ago. My father was never one to put on shows of flattery or appeasement like Renly, or go through the motions like Robert often did though he usually did truly mean well. My father seemed proud, or glad, or both, to have me now there with him.

Where I heard my father's footsteps, I heard the rustlings of Queen Sansa's skirts. My father stepped aside and offered a hand to her, bringing her closer to me. She seemed a bit nervous, for she was meeting her step-daughter, a girl old enough to be her little sister, for the first time. The nerves disappeared when she gave a smile and a nod, and then let go of his hand so she could somewhat kneel in front of me so I was actually looking down at her. She reached out to fix my head scarf, to hide an exposed pin and straighten my very slightly crooked circlet. She never looked at my scars, only at what she was doing.

"There we are," she said in satisfaction, smiling while looking into my eyes. She was a bit too thin, but she had color in her checks. Her red hair was pulled back, most likely due to it being a windy day, though it did make her look older, more like King Stannis' Queen. She looked absolutely gorgeous, like a lost princess in the stories they tell children, where her beloved knight goes to the ends of the earth looking for her, and when they are reunited, they return to rule the kingdom and live happily ever after.

She stands back up by herself and takes my hand like a mother would. My father seemed pleased with our interactions thus far, the court stayed quiet but also seemed to approve. For the first time I noticed Maester Pyros was present; he was the type of man that liked to blend in and observe, then quietly reflect and quietly act. I preferred him much over Maester Cressen; where Cressen taught me only the feminine subjects, which he did rather poorly, Pyros had enough foresight to start teaching me subjects not only to help survive Court life, but to help survive a tenure on the Iron Throne. He could never go into much depth because of the presence of my mother and her ladies, and I did wonder if such censorship would continue under the watch of Queen Sansa.

The Queen lead me through the crowd, my father right behind us with Davos at his side. Davos discussed the state of the harbor coming in; I didn't even have to look at my father to know that he was already scowling, or at least grinding his teeth.

Some of the court's faces were familiar, but most were new, and many showed signs of living through the hells of sieges and warfare. I noticed how their clothes were not crisp and new like they were in the times of Queen Cersei; the children were the only ones who looked like they received new clothes recently. When the Lannisters were forced off the Iron Throne, their money went with them. It was not new knowledge that King Robert was rubbish when it came to money, but it was still shocking how much the government had come to rely on Lannister pockets in order to perform basic functions.

The Head of the Kingsguard waited at the bottom of the weathered, broken down, crumbling, steep, collection of stones called stairs; I then knew why my father was treating his wife Sansa earlier with such care. He whistled and a giant, white direwolf emerged from the far end of the docks.

"Ser Jon Snow," Queen Sansa tells me, "he fought with the King at the Wall. His direwolf is Ghost. He is very sweet, but can be very fierce when necessary. Ser Jon has trained him well, so you need not be afraid of him."

He nods at us and addresses Queen Sansa, "Your grace, it might be best for Ghost to go ahead of the Princess so she can hold onto his tail if necessary. These stairs seem worse and worse every time I'm on them." She nods in agreement and lets go of her grasp, but keeps a hand on my back just in case. I refrain from holding Ghosts tail at first, but after the sixth step, I felt like I would fall if I did not. Ser Jon walked next to me, walking like these conditions were nothing. He kept an eye on everything in front of us, occasionally nodding or motioning at the Kingsguard above us to move to new positions.

Davos now murmured to my father about the state of the stairs, though my father was preoccupied with trying to traverse them without breaking his neck to scowl or show any acknowledgement that he was listening, though everyone knew he was. My father always valued every word that came out of that man's mouth for it came from a place of rationality and truth. The little Seaworth boys seemed to think the climb was fun, and I am quite sure Marya feelings were quite the opposite. Maester Pyros was at her side to help her and the boys if necessary, though he would probably end up tumbling down the stairs with them.

Though tempted to look back at the court's procession up those cursed stairs, I kept my eyes focused on the stairs in front of me and Ghost; though I know he was well trained, I still feared of causing him discomfort. I was forced to look back when I no longer felt the Queen's hand on my back, and Ser Jon looking alarmed as she lost her balance on a step. My father, thankfully, was right behind her and had good footing himself. He steadied her with a hold of her waist and her left hand.

"Just a few more steps," my father said, and I looked up and he was right. The Queen was briefly flustered, though more do to embarrassment I suspect as I later got to know her. She took a breath and continued on, my father still keeping a firm grip.

"Thank goodness, my King, you had to take the city by land; you would have lost half your men on these stairs alone." Davos let out a quick laugh at Sansa's comment. Jon gave her a quick smile but left it at that. He instead turned to me.

"This has probably been the most dangerous part of your journey, Princess." He goes in front of me to stand on the level ground up top, somewhat pulling me off the stairwell. Ghost must not have been too displeased with me for he nuzzled his nose in my hand, a subtle hint to scratch his ears. "He only lets people he likes scratch his ears."

He leaves me with Ghost to help with Marya and the boys. My father mutters something to Davos while Sansa brushes some dust off her skirt, still by my father's side. I noticed the wind, still nothing compared to gales of Dragonstone, had picked up a bit since we departed the ship.

"Shireen," my father called out as the procession again resumed. I somewhat ran to join him, temporarily forgetting that I was a princess. Sansa whispered something to him, smiling, but all he did was nod in response. Ghost went off, I assumed, to rejoin Ser Jon, wherever he had gone off to.

"I hope we make it back before it starts to rain," Sansa sighs, taking hold of my hand again, "but lately the sky been's playing tricks; a drop of rain still has yet to fall."

My father, I thought, would say something. He settled for a nod and I finally realize how exhausted he truly looked. It wasn't that the life of being a soldier had finally caught up to him; it was more like the acceptance of being the king of a broken, war ravage land.

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	5. Chapter 5

Disclaimer: Own nothing.

Author's Note: AU fic.

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A feast was thrown in my honor in the Great Hall; in a hall that could fit more than a thousand, less than a hundred were there. I know on one hand, my father was hesitant about holding anything that could be perceived as extravagant during times of war, and that many of those who swore loyalty were still fighting or could not make safe passage to King's Landing because of the fighting. On the other hand, he was not yet really the Lord of the Seven Kingdoms.

The hall was very eerie with its bare walls and the sounds of howling wind coming from some damaged section of the castle. The only light was around where we sat, which gave the illusion of the hall being much, much smaller than it really was. The feast itself outdid any held at Dragstone by at least tenfold; Cersei would probably have seen it fit only for a lord of moderate station.

I sat between Queen Sansa and Ser Gendry, the last known surving bastard of King Robert at King's Landing. Though his looks were a cross between Robert and Renly, he was a bit on the quiet side like my father, though he knew how to smile, and had no problems telling tall tales to entertain the little Seaworth boys.

Little Steffon asked him in a loud whisper, "Is it true they used to put the skulls of dragons on the walls?"

Gendry nodded, "There's still some skulls in the cellars. Teeth that are as big as you are." The boy's dumbfounded expression egged him on, "I don't know if its true, but when I was an apprentice, a customer of my master told me once that on evenings like this, some claimed that if you stared at the skulls at just the right moment, they had red eyes of fire."

"You're just making stuff up now," Stannis Seaworth said in disappointment, though his brother now looked at the walls with big eyes. Stannis almost jumped a foot out of his seat and let out a little yelp when Ghost, who was apparently on patrol under the table, brushed past his knee. Steffon almost fell out of his chair with laughter. Ser Jon whistled, and Ghost emerged. Caught in the act, he walked back to his post behind his master to nap, possibly sulk.

Queen Sansa, who had witnessed the whole thing, gave Gendry a brief smile. It was not flirtatious, but was still warm and welcoming. They were around the same age, at least when compared to the age gap between her and my father. I did start to wonder why Sansa was really wed to my father instead of someone like Gendry.

"Gendry was a bastard born in an ale house and trained to be a blacksmith. He had to earn his noble rank like my Davos; he was not born into one. Even if Sansa was just a Lady of House Stark, the match would never be good. His hands would always be that of a blacksmith's, and never the hands of a lord," was the way Marya explained it to me later on.

Davos sat next to my father, and I believe he was the only one my father spoke any real words to during the course of the feast. He did, however, nod or show some sign of acknowledgment whenever his wife spoke to him or the group. My mother used to get infuriated when he'd do this, but considering that he acted similarly in private with her, I think her anger was well founded. Where my mother thought he was really ignoring her, however, Sansa seemed to understand that he really was actually listening.

The tiredness seemed to creep up on me all of the sudden. Queen Sansa caught me rubbing my eyes; I knew princesses weren't supposed to rub their eyes, but I didn't care at that point. She whispered something to my father, and suddenly everyone was standing and we were on our way to the royal apartments. My father seemed a bit relieved to finally be able to retire; he was never the social type, and the amount of energy it took to mask the full extent of his anxiety was prone to kill a man before his time. His wife, I could tell, was very aware of this.

Throughout the feast, whenever she was talking to someone or taking a sip of wine, for a mere moment in time, she'd hold his hand, squeeze his knee, or touch his arm. His shoulders and back would relax back into his chair for a minute or two before eventually tensing up again. This level of affection and caring was beyond what was required for a "political marriage".

I don't know if it was the dim lights of dying torches or my sleepiness, but I swear that several times, I thought I saw the faintest stains of blood on the stones. I remember people talking as we made our way to our rooms, but the only thing I can recollect in confidence was me holding Sansa's hand, and seeing my father and someone, maybe Ser Jon, walking in fronting of us.

The ladies maid assigned to me, Anya, helped me change for bed. I was so tired, the amount of strength to lift my arms up was taxing. All I wanted was to rest my head on what looked like the most comfortable group pillows in the world, but I had to stay awake longer so she could unbraid the braids Marya had done that morning. A doll with a flower dress was sitting on the bed, and I hugged it while Anya struggled to undo an obviously unfamiliar Northern style.

Sansa came in, as if it was pre-planned, to relieve her. Her red hair was no longer pulled back, and went down to her shoulders just like Marya had described. Her dressing gown was very plain, but still fit for a queen. Even with her age, she did not come off as girlish; she came off as a woman. In no time at all, all of my hair was flowing freely again, and Sansa worked on smoothing the waves with a brush.

"I take it you like your doll?" I can still hear the smile in her voice which slowly faded away. "I had some of mine here with me, when my father was summoned to be Hand for your uncle. They were all either lost in the destruction of the Tower of the Hand, or when the Lannisters tried to booby-trap the King's bedchamber with a subpar batch of Wildfire. Cersei was furious; the fire ended up spreading to most of the rooms."

"Did you think about trying to escape when it happened?" She stopped brushing midstroke.

"Your father and Ser Jon and all the others were on their way," she answered a little bit too quickly and then proceeded to pull down the covers. I climbed underneath them, clutching the doll I decided, at that moment, to name Flora. As she tucked me in, I noticed my father standing in the shadows of the doorway like he used to at Dragonstone.

"You've had a big day, and a long journey." She stroked my hair a couple of times before my eyelids went heavy and closed. I felt her plant a quick kiss on my forehead before leaving to catch her own night's rest. My father stayed in the doorway for a few moments longer.

"Goodnight, Shireen," he whispered in a voice so soft that it could have been mistaken for the wind if he was a stranger. But he was not a stranger. He was my father.

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	6. Chapter 6

Disclaimer: Own nothing.

Author's Note: AU fic.

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I woke up to the sounds of the night guards being relieved by their daytime counterparts. A mixture of grumbling and leisurely paced footsteps all the way back to the barracks. The sun was not yet up, but the faint blue light that preludes it was already peaking through the small opening of the thick, dark red curtains of my room. I tiptoed over to window, Flora being my partner in crime; everyone in the apartments still seemed to be asleep.

The room became bathed in a blue light that was slowly transitioning to yellow. All of my possessions brought from Dragonstone had already been unpacked. All the furniture, bedding, tapestries were lightly colored, making the room feel clean and new. You would have never of known it was in a set of rooms that housed the families of the Mad King and Cersei Lannister; then again, any trace of them was destroyed in the fire Sansa had talked of the night before.

I dared to crack the window a few inches; I was absolutely forbidden to open any ever at Dragonstone. Either it was because there was a fear I would fall out, would catch a cold, or dare to breathe some fresh air. The air smelled of rain from during the night, and flowers from the courtyard below. I could see that there was a promenade that began next door; my room must have been part of the old Queen's suite of rooms.

I don't remember ever being in the royal apartments during the reign of my uncle. Cersei hated me, most likely hated my mother, and definitely hated my father. She took great lengths to not let her children have contact with me for fear of them somehow contracting the Greyscale, which was impossible to my knowledge. The only time I was ever around them was when Robert absolutely insisted.

On various occasions, I had overheard him call me a, "poor, sweet, wretched thing." I had also heard him call my father names that a proper lady would never dare repeat; they boiled down to him being stubborn, sad, soulless, among other derivative things. I once overheard him ranting about my father's "slavery to duty" to Renly; he stayed surprisingly silent as Robert made himself red in the face, most likely already drunk with wine in the early afternoon.

Robert was not good at ruling; where other kings tried pinning their shortcomings and limitations on their predecessors, my father could legitimately trace most of his problems to King Robert's reign. Cersei exasperated the problem, though in a cruel twist, with the influence of some of her relatives and men like my father and Renly, his reign was able to keep its head above water. Then, when he drew his last breath, it all fell apart.

I never knew Renly well enough, or have heard enough about him, to convince me whether or not he was more fit to rule than my father. All three Baratheon brothers were susceptible to poisoned influence; the Red Woman revealed this fully about my father. Renly always came off as more complete when compared to his brothers. Robert and my father were like halves of a person, needing someone there to balance them before they destroyed themselves and brought everything else down with them. My mother was never capable of doing this for my father, and he knew this. This is why he pushed her away right from the start; he didn't want to destroy her, but ended up doing so anyway.

"My Lady," Anya curtsied with a pitcher of water in her hands in the doorway, "you do not need to be up yet." I stepped away from the window, prepared to be scolded, but she instead poured some of the water into the basin. "Maester Pylos said you were an early riser like your father. The Queen said to let you sleep, but I guess you can join her for breakfast now. She'll be up and about by the time we've washed you up and dressed you."

When she was straightening up my dress after tying up the back, I noticed for the first time that there were scars that were like claw marks on her neck and hairline, and part of an ear was even missing.

"Where are you from?" I asked as she decided to simply style my hair by having it all fall in front of my left shoulder, using some pins to make sure it stayed put.

"The Riverlands, the southernest parts. My father was a merchant, so I was brought up wherever the wind happened to blow him, and us, a lot of times into the Crownlands themselves. But then the war happened, ended up here. Its safest here now. King Stannis makes sure of it."

Most of the servants in the royal apartments were from outside the Crownlands, specifically the North and Riverlands. They were the hardest hit during the War, and many became refugees. Once my father started gaining territory such as the coast of the Narrow Sea, the Eastern interior of The North, and so on, the refugees would move into his shadow. The line of battlefronts was still waving back and forth between the coasts, but it was increasingly waving West with each passing day.

Breakfast was served in the promenade. The Queen was already seated at the plain wooden table, looking barely awake. I curtseyed and took a seat as she was yawning, not even sure if she realized I was there. Her hair was worn down with some simple braiding to keep it out of her face, and her dark dress with accents of burgundy was of a simple cut. Even though she wore no jewelry or crown, she was still of queenly elegance.

"You must excuse my grogginess. We've had to move Council meetings to the morning, preferably starting before the ravens start arriving, which we have yet to achieve. Otherwise, we end up having to postpone indefinitely due to some unforeseen disaster. The King and his Hand are already discussing the latest positions of forces along the front."

"You sit in on the King's Council?"

"I am on the King's Council." Her tone was a bit stinging, but I attributed it to the early hour, not my naïve assumption. "I am told that I am the Queen of the North, therefore I must be there so the King's Law still applies to those in the North and most of the Riverlands, even if they don't see him as their King." She seemed more annoyed at the thought of being a queen on the throne of the North than bitter that my father had control of her dominion.

I took a bite of my porridge before asking, "What do they see my father as King of?"

As she picked at her food, "The Narrow Sea originally. Then the Stormlands after the passing of your uncle. Then the Iron Throne." Sansa was not a natural early riser; after each bite, you could tell she struggled not to be sick. Her right hand had a bit of a shake in it; the first sign of anxiety I had detected in her since arriving. When one of her ladies in waiting, Lady Tera of House Farring, entered to join us, she dropped her fork on her plate.

"Is everything all right, Your Grace?" Tera was around the same age as Sansa, maybe a year or two older; I only know this because I was told once. In comparison, all of Sansa's girlish charms and glow were gone; she was pure woman, not a naïve bone in her body. Tera did shows signs of guilt about startling Sansa, but it also seemed like this event wasn't a rare occurrence.

"Too much wine last night, I'm afraid." Sansa's hand was still shaking. "Is the King still with Ser Davos?"

"They are on their way..."

"Could you stay with the Princess until Maester Pylos comes for her lessons?" Sansa interrupted as she stood up, straightening her dress in haste.

"Of course, Your Grace." Tera curtseyed as Sansa left. She then turned to me, once Sansa was well out of earshot, "She'll feel better after the Council meets, My Lady. She always does." She chatted with me about things I no longer remember until Maester Pylos came for me. I do remember thinking about a girl who came to Red Keep who had everything she could possibly ever want, and had everything painfully, slowly, torn away.

The worst wounds of war are not the ones that affect the mortality of the body. The worst wounds are the seeds of guilt that are sown deep within the conscious of the survivors. There are no such things as winners in theatres of war, nor heroes, nor saints; only survivors. Queen Sansa was a survivor of years of captivity in the lion's den.

Both she and my father would always be survivors. Part of her would always be the girl with dead eyes, and part of him would always be the sad, soulless man.

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	7. Chapter 7

Disclaimer: Own nothing.

Author's Noter: AU fic.

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Maester Pylos put his finger on the faded map sprawled across the table and asked, "What islands are these?"

"The Iron Isles." I sat on the stool with my knees, resting my elbows on the table; it made for fetching and placing the little toy ships and soldiers less complicated. It wasn't ladylike, but Pylos never made an attempt to correct me; seating etiquette didn't win wars. Steffon and Stannis sat likewise on the other side of the table.

"Very good. Now, place a ship on the island where Pyke is." The ship I choose had a "R" scratched on the bottom, perhaps for "Robert" or "Renly". The wooden ships and soldiers were once used to instruct my father and his brothers, maybe even my grandfather and his father for all I know. It was a marriage of different sets; dark woods and light, hard woods and softs.

"That's not Pyke; that's Orkmont," Steffon chimed in, moving the ship to another island. "This is Pyke."

"That's not Pyke either," Stannis fidgeted.

"Yes, it is."

"No, its not."

"What do you know? You're too little."

"I am not."

"Boys!" Pylos interrupted the frivolous argument, "This is not a Council meeting. Now, Princess Shireen, would you like to possibly reconsider your original choice?"

I thought hard for a moment, realizing my initial choice was wrong, and so was Steffon's. I moved the ship to a neighboring island.

"Very good. Steffon was right about your first choice being Orkmont, but his choice was actually Saltcliffe. Pyke is the seat of the Iron Isles, which are ruled by House Greyjoy."

"Are they sworn to my father?"

"They are sworn to no one at the moment, though your father, very reluctantly, does have an understanding with them. It displeases the North, but they would have been more displeased if he didn't take King's Landing when the opportunity arose." The murder of Tywin Lannister, imprisonment of The Imp, and the mad paranoia of Queen Cersei made the Race to King's Landing possible.

They say once King Stannis' men reached the Crownlands, they did not stop to eat, nor did they stop to sleep. They marched, faster and faster, only stopping once Queen Cersei was forced to yield, a weeping mess on the ground in front of the Iron Throne. I learned from Davos that after she was dragged away, kicking and screaming, my father fell to his knees, almost succumbing to his exhaustion right there.

"It terrified us; we thought it was something with his heart. There was so much death inside the castle, it was suffocating. Stumbling, we took him out to the courtyard, the one the royal apartments looked out onto. For some reason, it remained untouched; an oasis in the middle of the Seven Hells. And we all just collapsed right there on ground, surrounded by flowers. The only reason we awoke in the morning was because of the rain." Davos declared that siege as the end of his career as a soldier. "I told your father I was too old to survive anymore of these excursions. He actually laughed at that, I swear he did."

"If it displeases the North," I asked Pylos, "does it displease the Queen?" He carefully thought about the question, knowing a bad answer was more worthless than no answer. This was one of the most respectable qualities about Pylos, and most likely why he had managed to survive The War of the Five Kings.

"We don't talk about the North around her," Stannis answered instead, "Mother says it makes her sad."

"It is a very delicate situation concerning relations between the North and The Iron Isles." Pylos finally answered. "On one hand, The Iron Isles have actively done raids into the North."

"They killed two of the Queen's brothers," Steffon interrupted, "little ones not old enough to fight. Theon Greyjoy killed them himself, strung up the bodies..."

"On the other hand," Pylos calmly tried to take control of the lesson again, "if they were to conduct raids on The Westerlands instead, preferably as close to Casterly Rock as possible, they would be forced to move some of their forces from the Eastern battle lines to the coast." He moved some soldiers to demonstrate his point.

"Why isn't Dorne helping my father? They could distract them, too."

"That is another delicate situation, and another very reluctant understanding your father had to make, and I'm afraid that will have to wait for another lesson. Now," he moved to help Stannis off of his stool, "let us take a walk and show the Princess some of the castle, shall we?"

I stayed quiet as we walked the halls. Steffon would very enthusiastically point out any damage and tell the supposed story behind it; Pylos would tell him to hush if he got too graphic. Stannis would always ask if their father was involved, and if you believed every word his brother said, apparently Davos took the Red Keep all by himself.

When we got to the hallway outside where the Council was meeting, we saw Ghost trying, unsuccessfully, to take a nap. The door was wide open, most likely from a Council member storming out a few moments before. There was shouting coming out of the room; I was surprised when I recognized one of the voices as my father.

"We cannot afford to play anymore games than we already are." He sat at the head of the table, tense like an animal about to leap at its prey at any moment.

"Myrcella's hand was given as an attempt to gain an alliance with the Martells. She is walking in the desert as we speak if she is not dead already," Ser Petyr pleaded his case, looking at Queen Sansa for some support. She refused to meet his gaze, and continued to sip wine from her cup. My father seemed annoyed, though I could not decipher if it was from Ser Petyr assuming she had some power, or the frivolity of the argument.

"Her existence is an abomination in the jurisdiction of the Iron Throne. And exile has already been declared a non-option in this insurrection."

"Her existence as Myrcella Baratheon, daughter of Cersei and Jaime Lannister, is an abomination. By any other name, she is no different than some of those Wildings currently in service to you."

"Those Wildings gave me swords."

"And according to Queen Margaret, she can give you some of the swords of Highgarden," Queen Sansa countered. Her tone was of pure steel, not a hint of the anxiety that plagued her earlier. My father glared at her; if he was King Robert, he would have probably launched a tirade right then and there at her.

"Queen Margaret may be dead already for all we know," Ser Davos reasoned like a good Hand of the King should.

The door was suddenly shut, and Pylos decided to usher us out to the Courtyard for some fresh air. Ghost decided to join us, and I scratched his ears as we made our way.

Queen Margaret briefly, technically, was my aunt. Myrcella briefly, legally, was my cousin. I should have felt something for them, something like sympathy at that moment, but I did not. Nor did I feel sympathy when my father imprisoned members of my mother's family during his march to the throne. It felt odd, not recognizing family as family, but maybe that was the cost we all face when the throne is within our grasp.

Though my father upheld his duty, it didn't always mean he agreed with what he had to do. I honestly believe that deep down, he did not want to hurt Tommen and Myrcella; they were never like Joffrey, who was so very easily swayed by his mother. They were pawns in a game, essentially condemned to death by their relatives. So was Margaret, and so were members of House Florent.

I know I was pawn, but my father played the game so well, I didn't know I was one until the game was over. Sansa was like one of toy ships from a set where all the other pieces had been lost; she may have been saved on purpose, or was just all that remained.

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	8. Chapter 8

Disclaimer: Own nothing.

Author's Note: AU fic.

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It seemed like we played for hours in the courtyard. Running around, occasionally kicking a ball around or whatnot. Upon recollection, it was definitely not princess behavior for the age I was, but for some reason, no one frowned upon it; even some of the Queen's ladies joined in on our antics. Ghost was more often found keeping Maester Paylos company under a tree than giving in to playing fetch with little Stannis.

War is known for bringing on maturity overnight, but it also forces part of the self to be a child forever, whether we choose to recognize it or not. Its the price paid for letting primal instincts take over for extended periods of time, and at the same time, trying to keep some of our humanity intact. The War stole so many childhoods; all wars steal childhoods. This war was worse than most, for many of the main players were children themselves.

Kings that act like boys are no different than boys that act like kings; they end up getting everyone killed in the end. My father hated dealing with the problem of King Tommen primarily because at times, it was hard to discern whether his forces' actions were due to one of his puppet-masters or a boy just being a boy.

At that moment in the courtyard, we were able to forget about our troubles, whether inside ourselves or just outside the walls. We played like children should, or as when we were children, we should have been able to.

Lady Sinead of House Follard would giggle every time the ball was kicked to her. Half of her left hand was missing, cut off when trying to deflect the sword of one of Cersei's guardsmen during the Fall of the Red Keep. She hid her disfigurement with draped sleeves, and wore showy rings on her right hand in an attempt to distract curious eyes.

Lady Beth of House Wensington would blush whenever a guard would gently kick a wayward ball back to her. More than half of the men in her family were wiped out at Blackwater alone, and more were taken while my father fought the Nightwalkers. Her father was still fighting hard, still leaving her and her mother to fend for themselves.

I remember looking up towards the royal apartments and seeing Sansa watching over us from the promenade. She waved to me cheerfully, and I waved back shyly. Lady Tera was right about the Council meeting improving her mood; she was more like the Sansa I met at the docks the day before. I wondered if part of her wanted to come down and play with us like her ladies did, but the way she occasionally looked at us, it was like she was expecting someone else to be there with us.

The brothers killed by the Greyjoys. Other friends and family lost. She was more like a woman searching for her kin than a girl that was forced to grow up too soon. Having children of her own would help cover up the guilt she felt for being a survivor, but she would still always see the ghosts.

I remember her gracefully turning back to talk to someone hidden from view, a smile gracing her lips again and again. She was so gorgeous, risked being too gorgeous when her hair was at full length again. Though the comparison still makes me sick to my stomach, she reminded me of the few times I saw Cersei conversing candidly with her twin brother, Ser Jaime. She was always completely relaxed, distracted in the way all lovers are, and expertly keeping the balance between tease and restraint. Though in her case, one false move and Robert would have had her and Jaime's head.

Part of me wondered who was so lucky to have her affections; perhaps it was a young knight with smooth, tan skin and silky locks of black hair. He would come to her in her few moments of privacy, beg her to let him take her away by the light in the moon like in those ridiculous songs young maidens awaiting their first love would always sing. It all seemed so romantic, but so cruel; she would tell him no, but tease that she would tell him yes on a day that would never come, most likely due to death.

She put her hand out to her admirer, trying to persuade her love to take the view in with her. I shouldn't have been surprised when I saw that it was my father; I shouldn't have thought that Sansa could have done better, though I don't think she had much of a choice. His life had always been so sad and gray, and with all the things he had seen, been forced to go through, he deserved to have something lovely. She was so very lovely.

His face still had traces of the scowl I saw him give his Queen at Council, but a scowl from him wasn't the same as a scowl from every other man. My father could express every sort of an emotion with a scowl; he could hide every sort of an emotion with a scowl. I think he had perhaps learned that letting his enemies know what made him happy, what gave him satisfaction, what gave him pleasure even, would lead them faster to his vices, his weaknesses.

The vulnerability my father took great pains to conceal was him wanting to be loved. Not the love a king desires from his subjects, nor the love that accompanies family ties. He wanted the love that would comfort him without making him feel weak. He wanted the love that would keep him safe when he didn't wear armor nor masks. He wanted the love that would accept all his imperfections, but stay focused on what made him worth existing.

The Red Woman loved him because he was her god. My mother loved him because of his status in the realm. These loves were not hard to discern, even as a child. Sansa's love I would not understand until I myself reached womanhood, was married, had children, lived life in other words.

His hand covered her's on the ledge, fingers entwined. Because he could, because she allowed, wanted him to. His shoulders were relaxed but there was still a sense of restraint. Now as a woman, I know now that his restraint was really lust. He was the only Baratheon brother that would treat lust with restraint. Renly would hide it in plain sight; a trained eye would have no problem seeing it. Robert would only give in to his lust, making others try their best to coverup any consequences.

He stood up there, watching over us as we played. I wonder if he saw the ghosts of the babes my mother lost. The countless bastards he helped Lord Arryn track down who were later slaughtered by King Joffrey. Maybe he was hopeful and imagined the children Sansa could, would, give him.

The burdens of the crown were still like storm clouds hovering over him, poisoning his mood. But Sansa, she was so lovely, and he knew this. When I saw her whisper something in his ear, his eyes closing for a moment as if to savor her words, I know he knew this.

She was so, so lovely.

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	9. Chapter 9

Disclaimer: Own nothing.

Author's Note: AU fic.

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I had been at King's Landing for little over a month, and my life at Dragonstone had already become a distant memory.

I would wake up, sometimes before the sunrise, sometimes after like all normal princesses should. Anya would help me dress, and attempt to do my hair in a non-Southern fashion. I would either eat breakfast with Queen Sansa or Lady Tera, and have lessons all morning with Maester Pylos and the Seaworth boys. Lunch was always in the part of the apartments where the Hand of the King and his family lived. When the city walls were fully repaired, the Tower of the Hand would be rebuilt, even bigger than it was before.

Marya insisted on cooking the meal herself, and would force Maester Pylos to confirm her scattered bits of gossip at the meal table. I learned that two additional Seaworth sons were "lost" at Blackwater; their bodies were never found.

"They probably found their ways to the Free Cities. Maybe when they hear about King Stannis and their father now being Hand, they'll come back. Those two were always a bit on the no attachments side; every time they sailed off, I sometimes wondered if they thought of never coming back on purpose." It was an unspoken rule to embrace this "missing" status for Marya's sake and the two youngest sons.

Steffon and Stannis knew their brothers were dead, but they played along for the sake of their mother. I knew this from the looks they gave their father on the rare occasion the subject came up. Davos did mourn for them in his own way, but he loved his wife, and he loved his remaining sons.

Devan Seaworth was a squire for my father, and therefore I saw him as much as I saw my father: rarely. We learned our letters together, but that was before the war, which seemed ages ago.

In the afternoon, my activities varied wildly. In general, they either involved learning the feminine arts or avoiding learning about the feminine arts. Its not that I didn't like things like embroidery or dancing, but there was just so many exciting things going on elsewhere.

A past-time of the Seaworth boys I learned early on was visiting Gendry at his smithy, which was really the main smithy of King's Landing, and lead provider of arms to my father's forces. He always had a spot for us to sit that wouldn't get us too dirty, and always had an ear to hear about the boys' latest adventures.

"We tried to go down to the cellars to see the dragons," little Stannis began.

"You got caught, I take it?" Though occupied with fixing the armor of some important Lord, he never missed a step in any conversation.

"The guards caught us. They said you had to have permissions to go down there," Steffon answered.

"Permissions? What sort of permissions?" Gendry added a wink for me, to let me know I still had his attentions also.

"The King's," Stannis answered very enthusiastically.

"So let me get this straight," Gendry tried to be as serious as possible, "you have to have the permission of King Stannis, the man who sits on the Iron Throne himself, to see some dragon skulls sitting in the cellar?"

"Its all very peculiar if you ask me." Gendry couldn't help but burst out laughing at Stannis' commentary, causing Stannis to have a hurt look on his face, which Gendry quickly recognized and tried to remedy.

"The next time I have a chance to speak with the King, I will ask his permission for me to personally take you two down, and Princess Shireen if she wishes, and see the legendary dragon skulls."

"Promise?" Steffon insisted.

"I, Ser Gendry, promise to ask for the King's permission."

Ser Gendry was a regular member at our very small dinner table, and was considered a full member of our very small family. His status as bastard was never mentioned, and King Robert being his father was only discussed when absolutely necessary. My father respected him like he respected Ser Davos; both were men of trade who had to earn their knighthoods.

The closest thing Robert ever had to a trade was his battle hammer. Renly did not much better with with his tourneys. Though all three could play war, in peace time, my father seemed to be the only one who could be truly useful. I wouldn't be surprised if he was considered one of the greatest Masters of Ships the realm ever had.

Gendry seemed as much as Robert's son as Joffrey was; he seemed to reflect the Baratheon brothers as a whole rather than just one. He had Robert's strength, Renly's good looks, and my father's practicality. I overheard Davos tell Ser Jon once that my father sometimes saw bits of my grandfather, Lord Steffon Baratheon, in Gendry that seemed to be lost when it came to his sons.

People never seemed to realize how much my father missed his parents, and how much it bothered him that his brothers went on like they never existed. Gendry, when given the opportunity, would never ask about Robert or Renly, but would ask my father about our grandfather. Some say Gendry was just trying to win the King's favor and become the Lord of Storm's End, but I think Gendry was trying to fit-in the awkward grouping called our family.

The mood was off that evening, during dinner and even afterwards. Only five of us were at the table, though Ghost was, as usual, at his post behind Ser Jon. Sansa was forcing herself to be cheery, which was never a good sign in any situation involving her. She would ask me or Jon or Gendry about this or that, while my father just sat there in silence, his mind obviously somewhere else.

Many saw Queen Sansa as a saint for her ability to be calm and sweet and cheery, even in the face of certain death. They were good traits for any queen in times of war, of sieges, of atrocities. My father hated it. He knew they were desired traits for any good queen, but still, he hated it. He knew it was just a mask for hiding the cracks growing underneath the surface.

Whenever Sansa would show a small false smile, for a brief second, my father looked like he was in pain. Whatever caused the off mood that evening, he felt like it was due to a failing on his part. For even the problems that could be traced back to King Robert, my father still always found a way to find himself the guilty one.

When Sansa lightheartedly tried to scold me for missing a dancing lesson in favor of visiting Gendry at his smithy, Gendry took up the opportunity of bringing up the Seaworth boys and their quest to see the dragon skulls. Ser Jon was amused by the permissions bit; he told him he'd tell the guard to let the boys in if they were accompanied by either himself or Gendry, or even Maester Pylos.

When Gendry asked permission from my father to allow me to go down as well, the King nodded before standing up to leave the table. I vaguely remember him mumbling about having to speak to Davos about something to Sansa, and Jon requesting to join him.

There was trouble brewing in The North. And Sansa's cracks were getting closer and closer to the surface, and not even her fake smiles would be able to hide it for much longer.

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	10. Chapter 10

Disclaimer: Own nothing.

Author's Note: AU fic.

* * *

The only time I remember having nightmares was when I was sick; Baratheons and fevers never mixed well. At some point, I told myself that it was the doing of the dragon blood running through our veins. I made sure to keep this to myself, of course. I was always so sickly when I was little, so I guess it was a blessing to be granted with few of them later in life, but it still felt odd. Good girls always had nightmares when their fathers were off at war, when their mothers died, when they felt abandoned on a rock at the edge of the world. I would just dream of seas and flowers, woods and snow.

My father, I think, had nightmares. Why else would he spend some nights staring into the flames of a dying fire? He had seen enough things in his lifetime to give him nightmares, heard about enough things to give him nightmares. The Red Woman might have promised to take them away, but ended giving him more in the process.

I was awoken by a noise, coming from outside my window; Anya must have forgotten to close it before she retired for the night.

As I went to close it, I could make out what the sound was: crying. It wasn't like the crying I heard when my mother had a stillborn or miscarriage. It wasn't like the crying I heard when my mother died. It was panicky, breathless, urgent. I looked out, carful not to be seen; it was Sansa, out on the promenade, leaning out into the courtyard air.

Her hands clutched the ledge so hard as if she was afraid of being dragged back into the nightmare she had just awoken from. Her eyes were red from the stinging tears cascading down her face, her face was flustered from the inability to regain her normal breaths.

The way her eyes darted from this to that, behind her and below in the courtyard, I couldn't deduce if she was trying to figure out where she was, or if she was looking for someone. She was frightened, trembling, alone in her terrors and fears.

I should have gone to her, tried to comfort her, but I stayed frozen, peering out from behind the curtain. I told myself that eventually someone would notice, a servant, or a guard, or maybe Marya would be awaken by her motherly senses and seek out the disturbance in the apartments. She looked so small and delicate, only clothed in a white nightgown, her thin arms bare.

A voice called her name from within the apartments. A man's voice. My father's voice.

He still wore the same clothes he wore at dinner; most likely, his meeting with Jon and Davos had just then concluded. His face was neutral, but his whole body was tense, incredibly tense. He tried to touch her, but with her mind still clouded by nightmarish thoughts, she swatted his hands away.

"Sansa...You need to breathe...Sansa..." Her whole body moved with her increasingly deeper, slower, stronger breaths. With air back in her lungs, her crying became more audible. He again tried to touch her, this time not letting her push him away. He rubbed her back awkwardly; she was still clutching the ledge, somewhat leaning over it more than she previously had. "Its over, Sansa...Its all over..."

She shook her head "no" my father's reassurances and gasped, "I need to go. I need to go right now."

"No, you don't...Sansa..."

"I have to...I have to get the Point..." He wraps his arms around her, forcing her to lean up against him. She still clutches the ledge, he still tries to get to his queen, his wife.

"You're safe." She tried to get away from him for a moment but he kept talking into her ear, holding her even tighter. Sansa closed her eyes. "You made it to the Point...You made it to the Vale..."

Her sobbing stopped, but still in tears she replied, "But I never made it to Winterfell. Never even made it to the North." She still held her tight grip, though his hands tried to gently pry them loose. "Two boy kings with direwolves...I know its them."

"Sansa..."

"He must of killed two other boys. He wouldn't kill them..."

"He betrayed Robb. He betrayed the North."

"Not all men are like you, Stannis."

They both stood there in silence, tears still going down her cheeks. She was looking up at the sky, and he still held her close. She looked like she was his prisoner, and I felt sorry for her. And I felt selfish, for I wanted my father to finally be happy, but not like this. It shouldn't have to be at the expense of her's.

"You were never in a cage. Never a prisoner. Never separated from your kind and raised to be another."

The Stark girl began to die when she saw her father's head rolling on the ground. She bled and bled during the many years she was trapped in the lion's den. She was dead by the time she first met my father in that hall, directing him to the woman who made a fool of Robert, made him enemies with Renly, and kept him from his right to the throne.

"His blood is Greyjoy, but the man is not; he's whatever we made him become." Her tears finally stopped. She let go of the ledge. I remember him seeming to hold her tighter, afraid that she would fly away forever. When he let go, he looked pained.

It was true that a few of her mannerisms were eerily similar to Queen Cersei. When she would drink wine, the glares she would give Littlefinger when he made some reference or remark that she interpreted as a slight or threat, how she generally kept the bare minimum of necessary company of any lady of the Court. She was most comfortable around men with power, and of some relation, by blood or arms, to her. Unlike Cersei, where it was for power, for Sansa, it was for safety.

"Jon will have to go with me to Winterfell. He'll be more easily recognized, and he knows Wildings. Gendry will want to come also; if they've managed to hide this long, Arya..." her voice trailed off as she made her way to their chambers, my father following her, but with great hesitation. He was already being torn between his duty and his own wants and needs.

They say when Davos informed him of my mother's death, his only reaction was asking about my welfare. He didn't grieve for her, openly, at least. The part that would have died when his parents died in the waters near the place the little boy Stannis Baratheon called home. His reaction to losing Sansa, on the outside, at first, was the same. But cracks started to appear, and it started to break him, like losing Lyanna did to Robert; the only things that kept him together was his duty to his Kingdom, and us.

I closed the window, fixed the curtains, quietly went back to bed. I thought of the ocean waves and went to sleep and dreamed, but not of the seas, nor flowers.

I dreamt of a wolf in the woods crying as she found herself being turned into a lion. I dreamt of a stag of dragon's blood, running through the snows, trying to find a way to make it stop.

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	11. Chapter 11

Disclaimer: Own nothing.

Author's note: AU fic.

* * *

I remember someone shaking me awake, I think it was Anya. My left cheek hurt, which was odd, and I remember being soaked in sweat, which was even odder. It was daylight, and I remember her calling out for help before I passed out and went back to sleep and nightmares again.

There is no real cure for Greyscale; it either takes you or it doesn't. It almost took me, but the Baratheon blood wouldn't let it. I had to ride it out like a sailor would a bad storm on the sea.

When I was very little, maybe around 4, at the Red Keep, some young Maesters tried to remove some of it. As soon as I saw their instruments, sharp knives and other torturous devices, I remember running under my mother's bed. I had to be pulled out by my feet by my mother and a Septa, and I kicked and screamed the entire time.

I vaguely remember accidentally kicking one of them in the face, I think it was the Septa, and my mother slapping me. My father had heard the screaming and had come to investigate; I was never a child prone to outcries. He saw my mother slap me and was absolutely infuriated.

If my parents ever argued, it was never done in my presence. I don't remember the verbal exchange in great detail, but I am positive that everyone in the room was terrified on some level of the shouting match between the Master of Ships and his wife. I vaguely remember Maester Cressen being mentioned by my father; until Pylos came along, he was the only Maester he ever trusted with my care.

Servants, I remember, were peering in through doorways, fascinated, I think, by how much they could tell my father was King Robert's brother just by his yelling alone. Renly was even among them; it had just been the King's Namesday, so the whole family was there. I think he had just gotten back from one of the many hunts that marked the occasion.

Renly's face was best described as a mix between awe and fear; though they didn't get along at all towards the end of his life, Renly had always looked up to my father with much more respect than he ever did Robert. My father was the one who had kept him safe during the Siege of Storm's End, not Robert, and if anything, my father was the only brother who genuinely tried to look out for his welfare.

At some point, the screaming match stopped, and my father picked me up and carried me out of the room. He would always pick me up so I could hide the Greyscale easily by putting my cheek against his shoulder. The servants and guards that had gathered quickly scattered as Stannis Baratheon, carrying his daughter, accompanied by Renly, made his way through the hall.

He didn't speak any reassurances to me, but did mutter some annoyances to Renly. Renly would occasionally give me a weak smile, maybe briefly reach up to brush my shoulder out of pity. At some point, I think even Myrcella joined us; all I know is that we ended up outside, and the rest of the memory has been long lost.

When I next came to, the pain in my cheek was even worse, and I was being pinned down on the bed by parties I was too feverish to even recognize. I think Sansa was stroking my hair, talking to me, trying to distract me as Pylos inserted something sharp beneath the Greyscale. There was a piece of leather in my mouth to bite down on, but it didn't muffle my screaming at all.

I had more nightmares, but they were so mushed together, I can't recall them at all now. I remember waking up, really waking up, no longer feverish but incredibly sore.

It was nighttime. The room was bathed in a soft glow from the fire and some nearby candles. Sansa was sound asleep next to me, still in day dress, hair flowing freely. She had a wet cloth in her hand, a futile attempt at fighting the fever. I found I was cradling Flora in my arms, like a true sick little girl. Someone was fidgeting in a chair nearby; it was Gendry.

I looked at him for a few good moments before he even noticed. He was fiddling with something in his hands, but he put whatever it was away when he saw me awake. He leaned in towards me, brushing a stray hair from my face; this was when I felt the extensive bandaging on the whole left of my face.

"You gave us quite the scare," he whispered as not to disturb Sansa.

"Did it come back?" I moved my hands instinctively towards my face to feel the bandages but Gendry stopped me.

"If you keep messing with your bandages, I reckon it will. I think I heard the Maester saying something about there being some fluid building up underneath it, like maybe some skin was going to grow underneath. I don't know; I'm only here so the King could catch some sleep."

I gave Gendry a suspicious look.

"They've both been here more or less by you for the past 3 days."

Sansa, only half-awake, put a hand on my forehead.

"Fever's broken."

"Do you want me to fetch the Maester, Your Grace?"

"Fetch the King."

"I thought Pylos gave him a sleeping..."

"Unless someone saw him take it, I am doubtful." Sansa started stroking my hair as Gentry went to get my father. She spoke softly, "Your father thought he was going to lose you."

"Didn't feel like I was dying." I weakly replied.

She smiled, "Its amazing how stubborn Baratheons are in the face of death."

Her gaze went to the doorway as my father entered; exhaustion seemed to accentuate how thin he had gotten due to the war. "Whether Greyscale or Nightwalkers, they live to fight another day."

My father took a seat on the bed, careful not to squish my legs.

"I think its the dragon blood," I whispered to Sansa.

My father said nothing as he checked for any signs of fever. He always took pains to avoid any conversation that could end up linking him to the Mad King. She kept stroking my hair, giving looks to my father until he said something.

"Maester Pylos said the Greyscale scarring kept you from feeling anything. We were lucky it was caught in time."

"Perhaps its more the Storm Lords," Sansa whispered to me playfully, refusing to let my father sink the mood. My father didn't seem annoyed; he was too tired to be annoyed. "Standing firm and proud against the fiercest storms the sea has to offer."

"Among other things," my father mumbled. He looked so sad, looking down at me; he really thought he was going to lose me. I gently grabbed his right hand with both of mine, like I used to when I was little, before he'd leave on a ship at night for King's Landing. His jaw twitched like he wanted to smile for me, like normal fathers do.

Sansa yawned and said to my father, "The day will be starting in a few hours; you need your rest. And don't you dare wake up poor Davos and start the day a few hours early." His jaw twitched again but went into a scowl as if he realized that would have actually been a good plan.

"As you wish, My Queen." He turned to me, "Until Pylos says otherwise, you stay in bed and rest."

"Yes, Your Grace." He squeezed my hands and for a second I thought he might have been inclined to grace my forehead with a kiss; instead he awkwardly looked at the floor before standing up. Sansa snuggled up close to me and wrapped her arms around me and even Flora.

"I'll keep your Shireen safe, My King." He gave her a look that reminded me of the scene I had witnessed a few nights before; he didn't ever want to let her go but would have to in the end. He gave us a nod before disappearing into the darkness.

As I dozed off into a pleasant slumber, without thinking of the consequences, I said, "He doesn't want you to leave." Her body didn't tense up or anything of the sort; instead, she lightly planted a kiss in my hair.

"I don't want to leave him either."

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	12. Chapter 12

Sweet Devan. The sweetest boy I ever knew that was of no relation.

I can still see him standing in the doorway of my room, holding that dusty wooden box that held the game that we used to play when we were cooped up inside for reasons that don't matter anymore.

But things were different now.

He wasn't a child anymore, though he was still a boy; he will always be a boy to me. He was a squire for my father, and was expected to become a knight sworn to my father, the King.

He had already seen the horrors of war. He had a better idea of the demons that haunted the Sad King than I ever would have.

The Northern winter had spared his life, but it left him forever feeling cold. As soon as all the pieces were set on the board sitting on the bed between us, each of us sitting crossed legged, he grabbed the edges of his cloak and wrapped himself in it like it was a blanket.

Many of the men, including my father, felt the cold forever. War does that. Like it made my father and some of the survivor's of the Siege of Storm's End hungry forever.

Sometimes my father would stare at his food like he forgot that we weren't on strict rations, that the roads weren't blocked, the harbors not blockaded.

My mother almost died during the siege. I once asked Marya if it might have forever weakened her, that that was the reason why she lost so many babes. So many potential male heirs.

"Your father blames himself for enough things already," was all she said.

Devan and I played in silence, at first. I used to not mind it, back at Dragonstone, before the War of the Five Kings. But at that moment, part of me wanted to scream at him.

He had seen the world, truly seen it. He was allowed to know where he was. He was allowed to see where he was, interact.

When we were evacuated from Dragonstone, when my mother was still alive, I was never allowed to talk to, to see the locals we came across. I was hidden behind curtains in a carriage. I was hidden under blankets in a wagon. When we walked, I was literally surrounded, barricaded by my mother and those loyal to her.

I was finally allowed to see when my mother died, but by then the Winter had fallen. Snow and fog blurred all views of countryside. The living fled and death was all that remained on our way back to Dragonstone.

I have a vague memory of talk of us going to the Wall with Father. My mother decided against it. No clear reason was ever given. I think even the Red Woman wanted us to go to the Wall.

Maybe if we went she would have survived. Fate is a fickle thing like that. Fate is unfair like that; it shouldn't have to depend so much on the actions of others.

I know my father wouldn't have sheltered me to the extreme my mother did. It was accepted that I was the only heir he would probably ever have. And sheltered heirs become rulers like King Joffrey.

"When is the Queen leaving?"

"The Queen's leaving?" Devan always had trouble lying to me.

"You're my father's squire. Your father is Hand. And your mother..."

"Its complicated. And that's truth."

"Is it because I got sick?"

"Partly. Not really...I shouldn't be talking about this."

He started to get up to leave.

"As heir I deserve to know. If something happened to my father..."

He stopped and looked to see if anyone was in an earshot.

"There is talk..."

He really didn't want to discuss it, but forced himself to anyway.

"There is talk that if she went to the North, she would not come back."

"What do you mean?"

"Its all hearsay, mostly lies, but the truth must be in all the talk somewhere."

"I will judge that for myself."

"There are rumors suggesting she is not the rightful heir of Winterfell; that there is a King of the North, and he sees her as a Southerner-backed pretender. There are also rumors that the Queen is somehow behind the rumors."

"They think she's trying to force my father to let her go home. For good."

"He might as well. She gives him no advantage."

"Don't say that."

"Why not? She has no army. No ships. No gold. She hasn't given your father a heir. Any insight she had about the Lannisters is utterly useless since we are still at war and are still at the brink of losing everyday to them. He had a choice in who would be his queen, and he chose wrong."

I hated Devan at that moment. I truly did. He was ultimately suggesting that my father had been bewitched by another woman kissed by fire. But instead of her power coming from the flames of the fire, her strength was derived from the cold which still caused Devan to shiver, even in the warmth of the Southern sun.

"I think you should go."

He didn't even bother to collect the board and the pieces to the game. He didn't even bother to look at me as he took his leave.

He didn't even say goodbye.

He did, however, suddenly stop in the doorway for moment, startled by someone in the hall. He then quickly walked away, and then my father appeared.

I know he heard what Devan said.

"Is everything all right, Shireen?"

"Yes, Your Grace."

If he hadn't had heard what Devan had said, I know he would have corrected me, told me to call him Father when it was just family in the apartments. But he didn't. His mind was elsewhere. The Baratheon fury was building just below the surface.

"He didn't mean it, Father," I blurted out.

He looked more tired than angry. More sad than annoyed. More defeated than agitated.

"You look tired, Shireen. You should get some rest." He consciously chose to not take out whatever he was feeling on me.

I wish he did sometimes. I think things would have been easier between us if he did.

"Yes, Your Grace."


	13. Chapter 13

The first time I was ever in the Queen's bedchamber, it was the evening of the feast being held for her Nameday. I was still so weak; Lady Tera and Anya held my elbows in case I fainted during the short walk from my bedroom to her's.

She was seated at her vanity, and smiled as I took my seat next to her. Her hair was tightly pulled back into a elaborate bun worn low just above her neck. Her dress reminded me of snow; how the lace was textured, how the bodice had an illusion of shimmering. It was all of varying shades the lightest blues and purple you could possibly imagine without it actually being white. The tight fitting sleeves elaborated how tiny her frame was, but the fierceness of her blue eyes, the fire of her hair; she was truly the Queen of King Stannis.

She wore earrings of simple pearls, and her necklace was of pearls spaced far apart. The pearls weren't perfectly round, nor a perfect shade of white. Some seemed gray, some blue, some green. Some seemed to be the shape that would warrant the artisan to set them aside instantly, but for some reason, they were not.

As Lady Tera began to pull my hair back, Sansa began to apply a mysterious concoction to my scars. I remember my own mother experimenting with makeup to hide my scars, but as she would put it when she thought I was out of earshot, "It makes her look like she'll grow up to be like one of the King's whores."

The scars turned from gray and rotting to white and shimmering. Some of the powder was added to accent my eyelids. A white dress was laid out for me on the bed; I went behind some screens to change in privacy, with Anya there to aid me.

The dress was of a bit of an unusual cut, at least compared to all the dresses I had before then; it actually dared to showoff my neck. It also seemed to accentuate my growing chest by how the fabric clung to it. My arms were bare but for good reason; Sansa placed the bracelet that went with her necklace on my wrist.

"They belonged to Lady Cassana, a gift from your Lord Grandfather not long after your father was born. Your father told me that during the Siege's of Storm's End, they were hidden away, and essentially forgotten." She took a deep breath before continuing, "He wanted to give them to your mother after she gave birth to you, but no one could remember where they were."

"She wouldn't have liked them anyway," I said while touching the pearls of the bracelet, "but I like them."

"I'm glad you do," she tried to smile as she took over styling my hair from Lady Tera. "When you're older, you shall have the necklace, too. I have a feeling your grandmother would have wanted that."

My Father entered just as Sansa was delicately placing my circlet on my head. He wore his finest doublet; black with gold detailing along the seams. His black gloves were relatively new; permanent creases hadn't yet formed from his constant clenching of his fists when he tried not to grind his teeth. He held a black box in his hands, a gift for his Queen. He came to give it to her in private; he seemed surprised to see me there.

I was instantly self conscious and looked down as he approached us; Anya and Lady Tera quietly, and quickly, made their exit from the room.

Sansa readjusted some strands of hair so my shoulders had more equal coverage, and that both of my big ears at least looked a bit smaller or were hidden.

For some reason, I thought Father would get mad at her for dressing me up the way I was, that he would get mad at me for going along with it. When I finally got the courage to look up at him, nothing in his demeanor reflected such emotion. He seemed lost for words. In a good way, of course.

"Go stand in the front of the long mirror," Sansa whispered in my ear. I slowly walked over, afraid of what I might see.

I looked like a princess out of a song.

"You look lovely, Shireen," and father said, the words somewhat awkwardly coming out of his mouth, but I know he truly meant those words he said nonetheless.

I spun around a few times, loving the sound of how the fabric swooshed, loving the sound of Sansa's laugh. She stopped when my father presented her the box he held.

"You spoil me too much, in times like these, my King."

My father was about to speak but stopped when he remembered I was still in the room. I was about to make an excuse to leave, to give the King and Queen some privacy, when Sansa motioned me to come over to see what was in the box.

I wonder if he would have said something romantic. Not something romantic like my husband would have said to me, but what was considered romantic for my father. I hope he would have at least let her know how much he treasured her, even when it seemed some of those around us were calling for her ousting.

I took a seat next to her again as she placed the box on the vanity, and carefully undid the box's clasp. Dragonflies of all shapes and sizes were carved into the dark wood. Dragonflies were one of her favorite things in the whole world, I came to learn.

She also loved roses. My Father had glass houses at Dragonstone and Storm's End specially constructed so there would always be roses when she was there.

That's how roses and Winterfell became associated. That's where the title Rose of Winterfell came from.

My father placed his hands on her shoulders as she opened the box; she let out a little gasp when she saw the two necklaces inside.

One was a beautiful gold dragonfly on a chain of white gold. The other was of a hawk of sterling silver with wings spread wide, on the thinnest metal thread, giving it the illusion of true flight.

My father wasn't like King Robert; I know he picked these out himself. Or told Davos what he wanted and he went out and procured them.

She silently removed the pearl necklace and nudged my shoulders so my back was facing her. I lifted my hair as I felt the pearls around my neck.

"Technically, you are a bit older than you were a moment ago."

They made me feel so grown up, and I would of stared in the vanity mirror longer if I wasn't so interested in the necklace she chose to wear that night; she couldn't wear both, though she would still look gorgeous if she had.

She brought both of her hands to her shoulders and squeezed both of my father's hands, "I honestly don't know which to wear, Stannis."

"What do you think, Shireen?" Father asked as he got down on one knee to better reexamine the necklaces himself. His right hand still stayed on his queen's shoulder, but his left quietly sneaked down her back and found itself on her waist.

I have no memory of him acting like such with my mother.

"The dragonfly is lovely...but the hawk is more queenly. And you are a queen."

"The Queen," my father corrected. Sansa jerked her shoulders slightly in annoyance, then shot him a brief look of disapproval which disappeared as he helped her with necklace's clasp. His gloved hands gave him trouble, making her smile mischievously.

"I'm sure the Princess would be more than glad to help His Grace..."

His reply was in the form of a scoff. I had great difficulty trying not to let a giggle pass my lips.

He eventually secured the necklace. To be honest, I preferred the dragonfly, but the hawk fascinated me. Why did he choose it for her? What was the rationale?

"Does it please Your Grace?" My father asked as he watched her look at herself in the vanity mirror, his hands on her waist, his chin hovering close above her shoulder.

"Yes. Yes, it does." She turned her head and kissed him. Then I felt her hand on my shoulder and she kissed my hair.

"Don't want to be late for the feast now, do we, My Princess?

At that moment, I wished she was my mother. Or I wished my father loved my mother like he loved her. Or I wished my mother loved him like Sansa loved him.

But wishes are just wishes in the end.


	14. Chapter 14

Whenever Queen Sansa wore her crown, I always thought of her as being the Queen of the North, and of holding a power equal to my father. By the way the Northerners at her Nameday feast regarded and treated her compared to the King, I know I was not the only one with such thoughts.

Robert would have been infuriated by the thought of his Queen upstaging him in such a matter, though Queen Cersei did this plenty; he was just oblivious, though more likely, he was too drunk to notice. Renly would have found it entertaining in a curious way, though eventually he would feel slighted. My father didn't even bother to wear his crown; he was still King, and frankly didn't care if his subjects loved him at all.

When she entered the Great Hall on Father's arm, all eyes fell on her, and most stayed on her; a few strayed when they saw me being escorted by Gendry not that far behind them. Some looks were the typical reaction, while others were along the lines of pleasant surprise.

It was very odd for someone of my age and status to have not been betrothed yet. I had not yet bled, for I was a late bloomer due to poor health early in life, but still, it was expected for the sake of the House, and in my case, the Realm.

I know my father would want a match of high strategic value, but he was also incredibly protective. He knew my Greyscale made me vulnerable to exploitation, abuse. There was also the issue of me being his only true heir; he didn't want to legitimize any of Robert's bastards unless he absolutely had to. Whoever my husband would be, he had the potential to become Prince Consort, and would be tempted by all the evils that come with such close proximity to power.

For sake of stability, me being a "Virgin Queen" was a possible reality Sansa, very reluctantly, had accepted very early on. In theory, I could legitimize a male bastard or descendant of one, and their children would be the start of my line of heirs.

My father always refused to talk about it. He never wanted to be King himself, so why would he want such burdens placed on his daughter who was born with no real expectation of her sitting on the throne? And, he had remarried for the sake of producing a male heir, after all.

At least, that's what the Court was led to be believe.

That's what all his enemies were lead to believe.

When I thought I heard the talk of marriage plotting in regards to myself, I also started to here whispers of speculation of whether or not the Queen was with child or not.

She never wore corsets, and all the ladies wore looser gowns along the waists; gowns now tended to be snuggest just below the breast and float out. If you had starved due to the war, it made you look like you had an ounce of fat. If you had benefitted from the war and grown large, it made your gluttony appear to just be an optical illusion.

Though there were some gaps in my knowledge about what was required in order for a woman to be with child, I was starting to find it rather peculiar that Sansa hadn't at least been visibly pregnant; my mother miscarried enough to make me know the harsh realities early on. I knew my father never slept in the King's Bedchamber; the servants said it was because of the ghost of King Robert, while I knew it was because of the affections he had for his young wife.

As I watched Sansa pick at her food as we watched some of the guests begin to dance, I could see the pressure starting to take its toll on her. All of the pressures. Not yet producing a heir, keeping my father from working himself to death, being queen of a land she hasn't seen since she was a child…

"Your Graces," Lord Justin Massey introduced himself as he stood before us, "on behalf of my men and my House, I offer much belated congratulations on your marriage. And, if I dare say, the realm has never been blessed with a more lovelier Queen."

"Thank you, My Lord, though I fear you exaggerate." I am fairly certain I saw Lord Baelish roll his eyes at the exchange as he took a rather long sip of wine not far from where we sat. Lord Massey, "The Smiler" as I heard my father sometimes refer to him. That, or, "The Smiling Idiot."

"Princess Shireen," he turned to me, "it is good to see you again, and under happier circumstances for once."

I nodded in acknowledgement, silenced by my shyness. I could sense Gendry observing him very closely, for reasons still unknown to myself.

"How is your wife, Lord Massey?" By his tone, I know my father's question was serving out some sort of agenda; he wasn't a man known to entertain smalltalk for no gain.

"She is well, My King, though the Maesters thought it unwise for her to accompany me due to her condition. She wished me to pass on her regrets of not being able to attend nor be at Court."

My father was hardly able to contain his scoff, making Sansa take an unusually long sip of wine to hide her embarrassment and irritation at my father. It didn't seem to phase Lord Massey much; he had been around my father long enough to not take such reactions with offense, though he also seemed to know the true nature of the question.

"Perhaps you will do me the honor of dance later, Princess," he asked me as he excused himself from our presence. My recent bout of ill health had been fairly well hidden from the Court, though supposedly he had been made aware before his arrival.

I wouldn't be surprised if his offer to dance was part of some scheme.

Though he had always treated me kindly, if I wasn't the daughter of King Stannis and Queen Selyse, I would have been treated the same as any other disfigured girl that could give him no advantage.

"You don't have to do anything you don't want to," Sansa muttered under her breath to me when he left. "Its better to come off shy than pass out and stir up the whole Court into a state."

"If she stays towards the edge of the room she could leave without making a scene if necessary," Gendry replied, "and I'll have some poor soul dance with me so I can stay close and intervene if necessary."

"I'd honestly rather her dance with you than that smiling idiot." Apparently Sansa held views on Lord Massey similar to my father, though they tended to be less honorable. "He shouldn't be asking the Princess to a dance when he has a pregnant wife at home. The Court will talk, regardless of his history and standing with His Grace…"

"His Grace has no objection unless the Princess has an objection." Though my father was well aware of his faults, he never forgot Massey's loyalty to his claim to the Iron Throne.

When the time came to dance, though we stayed towards the edge of the room, I could feel all the eyes on us. Talking was kept to the usual pleasantries, and I made sure to keep my shoulders back, and thankfully never stepped on his toes.

He was a good dancer, and I saw the flirtatious glances he exchanged with the ladies we passed by, sometimes much to the displeasure of their dancing partners.

I remember looking back to where my father and The Queen sat. She smiled at me though was distracted when Lord Baelish approached her. My father kept his eyes on me the entire time, even when Davos was conversing him.

When I saw him start to show a scowl, I did slightly become alarmed. Was it because of Lord Baelish and the Queen? Was it because of Massey and I?

The true cause was actually quite humorous, at least to me; Davos was convincing him to dance with his Queen.

I had never seen my father dance. Ever. He was always good at making himself unapproachable, either by becoming engrossed in a conversation with Lord Arryn or by just presenting himself as unapproachable. I did hear of one incident where Queen Cersei tried to persuade him to dance very early on during her marriage to King Robert; it ended up with her almost throwing a cup of wine in his face and King Robert laughing so hard he had tears in his eyes.

I didn't think my father would embarrass himself or His Queen, though it was still guaranteed to be an awkward affair. Sansa, with her perfect grace, and Father being Father.

I was somewhat shocked when this wasn't the case. Though my father probably didn't like the attention they attracted to themselves, he didn't come off awkward when he danced. He actually reminded me quite a bit of the times I saw Renly dancing; his posture was strong and his movements were fluid.

There was a preciousness to how delicately he treated his wife, and when they were required to break eye contact, she would smile to herself.

The whole room fell into a trance, it seemed, around them. The Court appeared to fall in love with their Queen as much as my father had previously, whenever that had miraculously occurred.

The Queen's Nameday Feast had turned into a beautiful dream, which suddenly turned into a nightmare at the sound of a thunderous explosion.


	15. Chapter 15

It is very difficult for me to recount the events that followed. Where the memories of others tend to gravitate towards such violent drama, mine seems to be in a constant state of denial.

I remember Gendry grabbing my arm and people running.

I remember Anya helping me change into this terribly itchy gray dress and Sansa yelling at someone, maybe my father, in another room.

It was known that enemy agents still lived in the city. Their number and mission was never known until it was too late.

They had tunneled under key foundation points of the city wall. Using pig fat and Wildfire, the foundations weakened, and large sections had collapsed.

Fire had spread to the slums. The city was in a full panic. Though no enemy soldiers were at the gates. Yet.

A nightrider brought word that Dorne was about to declare for King Tommen, and that they were reaching out to Essos for further support.

King Tommen would have a navy. King Tommen could push my father back into the Narrow Sea and up against The Wall.

I was escorted by guards to a room adjoining the King's Office. There was a small cot there on which I laid down and tried to wake from this nightmare. But it only got worse.

This is where I first heard about dragons in Essos.

They weren't regarded as rumor. They were regarded as fact.

The monsters I dreamt of consuming me were real.

Lord Baelish was accused of holding out on information. He fiercely denied it. This was the only time I truly believed he was telling the truth, and that he was truly on my father's side in this.

I blocked everyone out when I heard them suggest I be evacuated to Braavos.

I put my hands over my ears and fell asleep.

* * *

It was still dark when I awoke. All the angry, scared, frustrated voices had gone away.

My father was there with me, sitting on the edge of the cot, stroking my hair.

"The dragons in my nightmares. They're real." He didn't say anything. I sat up.

"You're going to send me away, aren't you?" He gently grabbed both my hands and squeezed them. He was wearing his armor. Armor I had never seen before. Stags dancing amongst flames.

"Where is Sansa?"

"She's...she's making arrangements for your journey." His soft, quiet tone frightened me. It made him seem old, weak, lost.

"To Braavos?"

"Winterfell." He was letting his queen go and making her take me with with her.

"Will you join us, when you can of course?" He gave me a long hard look as if he was trying to memorize everything about me.

He had never done that before.

"The Queen won't be pleased if you don't." He tried to give me a smile in return, but he just looked like he was in pain instead.

"You don't have to fight. You can come with us instead."

"Shireen." He stared at the floor.

"You weren't suppose to be King..."

"Shireen," he interrupted sternly. I couldn't look at him anymore. Tears stinged my eyes.

"You are my heir. You are my sole heir. Upon my death, you will be Queen."

"I don't want to be Queen."

"Wants don't matter. Its your duty."

"No, its not..."

"Yes, yes it is. It is our duty."

"Its not supposed to be."

"Shireen..."

"Why did you let Robert do it? Why did you let him do this to all of us? Why? He's killing us all. He killed Mother."

I wrapped my arms around my father's neck and cried into his armor. He held me so tight and awkwardly rocked me side to side. I could feel him kiss my hair. I could feel his guilt.

"My Shireen," he would whisper, over and over again.

* * *

My father held my hand as we made our way to the docks, like he used to when I was a very little girl. Lord Snow and Ghost walked with us, though they wouldn't be accompanying us on the journey. I never asked where Gendry was. Or Davos. Or Marya. Or any of the Seaworth boys.

The air reeked of smoke and dust. Sansa was there waiting for us.

Sansa didn't look like a Queen of the North. She looked someone being sent into exile and being powerless over it.

He helped me get into the little boat that would take us to our vessel.

Sansa hugged Lord Snow. "Don't get yourself killed."

"I'll do my best, My Queen."

She kissed him on the cheek and stepped back, "Don't let the King get himself killed, no matter how hard he tries."

He smiled at that, though he knew it would be an impossible task.

She placed her hands on my father's armor, their foreheads almost touching.

"You remember your duty." He placed his hands upon hers. "You remember your duty to me." He kissed her forehead. "You remember your duty to Shireen. You need to retreat, you retreat."

She gave him the tightest hug I'd ever seen.

"You come back to us."

He never said anything to her. He kissed her, but he stayed silent.

He watched as we rowed away.

Sansa didn't cry. She was the girl with dead eyes again. So I quietly cried for both of us.


	16. Chapter 16

The seas were dark and rough. Fog shrouded any land within eyesight. The clouds refused to let much sunlight shine upon us. Everyday, we sailed farther North, it got colder, and colder.

Sansa just seemed indifferent to it all. She was going back to home that was no longer home.

Her sea legs took longer than most to come about. A child of the forests, of rivers, of mountains, of valleys, she had never had to be on a voyage like this.

Sansa was never suppose to be a Storm Lord's wife.

The storms we encountered, which were not that bad, did frighten her, but she did her best not to show it. I know they frightened her by how her knuckles turned white as she grabbed the frame her bed while she slept.

During ones where even I had trouble sleeping, I would get into bed with her. She would hold me close and stroke my hair. She would tell me about Winterfell and her old life there, about her family, about the Old Gods.

When there started to be long gaps of silences, I began to ask her questions.

"What did you think of my father the first time you met him?" She stopped stroking my hair and instead held my hand.

"First time I saw him, his armor was covered in blood. They were on their way to the Iron Throne. I didn't think he noticed me, but Davos said he did. My dress had blood all over it...one of her guard had wounded me. Last thing I remember before fainting was how terrified Jon looked. The next thing I remember is being on a horse with Litt- Lord Baelish. And then I woke up in a tent in a field, and in the distance, I could see the towers of the Red Keep."

"But what did you think of him?"

"You're more like your father than you'll ever know, Shireen." I think she smiled when she said that. "The first time we spoke, it was when I was brought before him to swear fealty. I had come from The Vale; we were about to venture to the North when the ravens came. By chance have you met my aunt, Lady Lysa?"

"She's Lord Baelish's wife?" Sansa nodded. "I have. She didn't like it when I was around Sweet Robin. But other than that, she was nice, though not as nice as Lord Arryn."

"Before I left The Vale, I may have said some words that made her cross. Enough that she sent a raven to your father. I think she hoped it would push him to label me treasonous, which he ended up not, but barely."

"You thought he was going to kill you?"

"No," she said rather sternly, "he was...your father is very, very different from his brothers. Where they could be blinded by good intentions, your father knows all the terrible things every man is capable of. I'm doing a terrible of explaining this, aren't I?"

"My father isn't an easy man to explain." She let out a weak laugh.

"The first time we truly spoke, we were at the wall overlooking the sea. Whenever the Red Keep started to feel suffocating, I would go there to clear my head. This is when I truly met the man that is your father."

My father told me the other reason she would go to the wall, years later, when my husband was still trying to seek my hand in marriage.

"The night we took the city, she was going to be executed; she decided if she was going to die, it would be by her own will, and her's alone. She was going to jump to her death, but she got lost amidst all the chaos. So, later on, when I called her to Court, she learned every possible route to that one damn wall she could. If the fall didn't kill her, the sea still could."

It was one of the few times I ever heard his voice crack.

"So, what did you think?" I asked Sansa again.

"I thought he was the first person that understood the extent of the hell I went through because he had been through parts of it himself. I could sense the anger he had because others were so blind to it, that they didn't even try to help. He was never supposed to become the man he became."

"What was the man he was suppose to become?"

"I don't know. If his parents hadn't died..."

"Neither of us would exist." She laid a kiss in my hair. "The Gods are like that."

"Not always, Shireen. Not always."

"What would his life had been like?"

"He would have married later in life, if he married at all. He would still become one of the greatest Masters of Ships the Realm had ever seen...But he wouldn't have you. He loves you, Shireen. Unconditionally."

"He loves you, too..."

"No, it is not the same. Not even close," she interrupted. "No matter who you become, he will love you till the day he dies. You are his greatest weakness because of this, ever since he first held you in his arms. He would give up everything to keep you safe. He would die to keep you safe."

She was silent for a long time after that. The ship rocked back and forth. I closed my eyes, beckoning sleep to come. Her soft voice delayed it for the moment.

"Your father will always be motivated by love before he is motivated by duty when it comes to you. Never forget that, Shireen. Never forget that."


	17. Chapter 17

Supposedly, we were accompanied by two ships: one ahead of us, and one behind us. Lord Massey was on the one ahead of us; he was stationed somewhere close to the North, so it made sense he would accompany us. It was supposedly part of some security scheme, though I doubted how effective it could possibly be if we came under attack.

I recognized none of the crew or guards on the ship; they were not my father's men. It made me feel uneasy, but Sansa never seemed to worry.

When it wasn't raining or the seas too rough, we would go up on the deck. Every since we left King's Landing, Sansa seemed more relaxed, though her lingering sadness was now plain for anyone to see.

Her eyes were dull. Her smiles rarer and weaker. Her voice quieter and rougher. She seemed more like a woman that would be married to my father.

She somehow seemed to be more like my mother.

By the time I was born, my mother had gotten her sea legs, and the only times I remember her getting seasick was when she was with child. I used to sit on her lap while she'd chat with one of my father's men, or father if he was with us. When I got older, he rarely traveled with us, and when he did, any talking became awkward rather quickly.

At least, back then, I had Devan to run off to on the other side of the ship. He would tell me everything he knew about the rigging, the foundations of navigation, and sometimes a member of the crew would regale us with his past exploits.

We traveled far enough North that small chips of ice could be found on the deck. Though not ladylike, I liked to kick them around to entertain myself. Sansa would sometimes smile weakly at my antics, but I often caught her looking in the direction of King's Landing.

My mother would do the same thing when we'd have to sail back to Dragonstone. I used to think that she preferred King's Landing over our island home, but I now know it was because she wanted my father to be with us. She wanted him to be with her.

"What did you say to Cersei that made her chop off all of your hair?" I had been meaning to ask this for ages.

"Pardon?"

"Marya said she cut your hair?"

"Marya says a lot of things." I was surprised by the tone she took, slightly acidic in nature. Sansa's attitude towards Marya was lukewarm, at best, I later learned. Where my father was incredibly blunt towards others, Sansa had no problem masking her true feelings.

I never dared inquire why she felt the way she did. Marya was nothing but sweet towards her, and when when she died, Marya mourned her like she was her own kin. I think there was something Marya did, perhaps a certain mannerism, that reminded her of some aspect of some trauma she had to endure.

Sansa seemed lukewarm to most of the women older than her. But to all, she wore her mask of courtesy perfectly. Except around my father. And eventually me.

I preferred it when she didn't wear her mask.

"I told her she was right. That the more people you love, the weaker you are. That her love for Jaime made her the weakest of them all." She turned to the sea. "In the end, she was just the queen of a chair of rusty swords."

"She hurt you a lot, didn't she?"

Sansa responded with a pained expression. She stood up and took her exit to below the decks in silence.

I still don't know the full extent of what she had to endure during those years of Lannister captivity. But from what my husband has told me, and the few times I discussed it with my father, no one should ever have to go through what she went through.

Any love she had for my father was based in knowing he would never hurt her like they did.

Sansa Stark was a little girl who was told she would be married to a handsome prince and live the life of pretty songs. Sansa Baratheon was a woman who knew how wretched life could be, and just wanted someone to keep the monsters away.


	18. Chapter 18

When I heard sailors talk of the dangers of floating ice, I knew our journey on sea would be over soon. It gave me hope, for being trapped within the confines of the ship due to the bitter cold was starting to make me feel claustrophobic. And Sansa was having more bouts of sea sickness than ever, despite us entering calmer waters.

Sleep was also becoming more difficult for her. She'd mumble, toss and turn all throughout many a restless night. The only words I could ever make out were "no" and "please." She might have once called out for my father, but that could have just been in a dream.

One night, I awoke and was alarmed to find her missing from her bed. Without a second thought, I put on my pair of boots and wrapped myself in my thickest cloak. When I saw that her cloak and blanket were missing, it eased my mind for I knew where she had gone, and that she wasn't totally exposed to the elements.

I found her on deck, staring up at starry sky; her eyes were red from crying. She was purposefully breathing in and out slowly, deeply. Though I tried my best not to, I startled her when I came to stand beside her.

"You should be asleep, Shireen." I didn't speak. At least, not right away.

"We must be reaching our final destination soon."

"Tomorrow night. Supposedly," she answered, "the ship won't be able to dock so we'll be rowed ashore. Lord Massey will be there to greet us, and if all goes accordingly, there should be some Northerners there to also accompany us."

I hear her shivering in her voice, so I grab her hand and gently ushered her back to our quarters.

"Will it be a long journey to Winterfell?"

"This voyage will seem like an eternity in comparison, Shireen. And I will never be more grateful to have both my feet on solid ground."

* * *

It didn't seem like we had anchored so far off land until we had to row ashore through choppy waters. Sansa held onto me so tight that I later discovered I had bruises on one of my arms. And though it was uncomfortable, I was glad she wrapped part of my headscarf around my face in order to protect it from an increasingly biting wind.

The dark night made it impossible at times to know which direction we were headed. At times, I swore we were actually heading back towards the ship.

The party that waited for us on shore was dressed in so many layers of furs and animal hides that if my father had been among them, there is no way I would have been able to tell him apart from the others. But as we got closer, I could see their beards and longer hair.

Lord Massey, who greeted us warmly, seemed to have not shaved since he was in King's Landing.

Though I used to pride myself with being able to transition from sea legs to land legs rather seamlessly, my legs found themselves to be rather wobbly. For Sansa, it was even worse; Lord Massey almost had carry her to the horse she was going to ride.

The men that accompanied us were from many houses, even as far as the Riverlands though I fail to recall which ones those were. Most of them were very young, and there was a woman, Alysane Mormont.

For security, only first names would be used until we reached Winterfell. The only possessions Sansa and I had were the clothes on our backs, and the hawk necklace she wore around her neck.

"Justin, I think it would be best for Shireen to ride with me, since your wife has charged me with her safety." Massey, surprisingly, gave Alysane a look of daggers after making sure Sansa was securely sitting on her saddle.

"And I thought I had charged you with my wife's safety." Her only immediate reply was a laugh as she helped me up onto her saddle, and then got on herself.

"Apparently you still have yet to learn how fierce a Kraken is, especially one with child."

Snow gently began to fall as our party made our way to an inn that we wouldn't reach till midday. Massey rode next Sansa the entire time, engaging in smalltalk that my father would have never entertained. Alysane would tell me about herself, her family, and especially about her daughter, Lyra, who was around my age, and was awaiting us at Winterfell.

"She'll be eager to teach you swordplay and all the things proper Southern ladies aren't suppose to know," Alysane, who insisted I call her Aly, said in a voice full of both motherly pride and mischievous intent. "But then again, you're the daughter of one of the most stubborn and toughest soldiers I have ever met. You might be fiercer than any Kraken."

"Or a bear," I added, making Aly laugh heartily.


	19. Chapter 19

Bands of Wildings could be found all over the North. Some were hostile, some were indifferent, but most were willing to do whatever it took to stay alive in a winter that wouldn't go away. In exchange for food and help with shelters, they hunted down what was left of the Bolton swords, and sent any Iron Raider that crossed them back into the sea.

When my mother and I were evacuated from Dragonstone, I overheard one of her guards telling her to keep me out of sight, or at least my face covered, whenever there were Wildings near. The Greyscale was a sign of impurity; it was a sign that I wasn't suppose to still be alive.

Like the radical followers of the Lord of Light who wished for men to burn at their fires, as if it would suddenly cure all of their misfortunes, the Wildings wouldn't think twice about sacrificing someone like myself in order to help bring on the end of winter.

"If they even think of touching her, none of them will live to see the end of the winter," was my mother's reply to the warning, though whenever she saw a Wilding, she'd suddenly pull me closer, and her guards would be on alert.

When we arrived at the inn, all of us visibly exhausted, there was evidence of a Wilding camp not that far into the woods. I checked to make sure my face was still covered, and decided that I would only look at the ground until we were safely inside the inn.

Nothing ever got past Aly. She whispered in my ear, "You are safe, Shireen; they wouldn't dare face my wrath, let alone your father's."

* * *

I was sent to bed as soon as our rooms were ready. Though someone always stood guard at my door, I slept with my headscarf on, despite how much it made my face itch.

Under a mountain of blankets and furs, even with a roaring fire burning across the room, my teeth still chattered. I tried to think of warm things, safe things, home things. But instead I regained memories that I thought were lost forever; some of them should have stayed lost forever.

I remembered cuddling with my mother under the sheets of her bed when I was little. I was very, very little. But it wasn't just the two of us; when I pressed my tiny fingers against my mother's swollen belly, my brother would kick me like he already wielded a war hammer inside the womb. And my mother's smile, it was so beautiful and bright and happy then.

My father believed he was going to be a father again. He didn't think this would end in disappointment like all the other times. He didn't think this would end in heartache like all the other times.

I remember him laying his head on her stomach, perhaps even talking to my brother to calm his kicks and let my mother have a more comfortable slumber. My mother would run her fingers through my father's hair, and she was just glowing without satisfaction about it all.

If my parents were ever truly in love, they were in love then.

I sat on my father's lap outside her room while she was in labor. Or played with my toys at his feet. Lord Davos, Ser Davos back then, was there, and some others I can't remember.

In the last hours of her labor, the cord became wrapped around my brother's neck. When he failed to breathe his first breath, she started screaming. It was the most awful, terrifying thing in the whole world to a tiny child like I was; hearing your mother suffer all that pain simultaneously, and somehow knowing it would never completely go away.

My mind struggled to bring forth another memory that was bubbling up, but the sound of one of the logs in the fire loudly cracking seemed to do the trick.

I remembered being held by someone, but it wasn't my mother; my mother was already dead. I felt so hot and so cold at the same time. All I wanted was my mother but she was dead. I kept asking for my mother but she was dead.

My father rocked me side to side, and I was terrified of going to sleep; my mother went to sleep and never woke up. I wanted to be with my mother, but not like this.

"You will wake up, Shireen. You woke up when you got the Greyscale, why would this be any different?" Sansa sat on the edge of the bed and was silently crying; she thought I was going to die, everyone thought I was going to die.

She moved to sit against my father and began to run her fingers through my hair which had become a sweaty, tangled mess. And then she started to sing a lullaby or hymn to try to lull me to sleep. And as I started to surrender, my father started to tremble and she stopped.

"You will wake up, Shireen. You will wake up."

* * *

When I woke up, night had just fallen. I could hear Sansa and Alys talking in hushed tones in an adjoining room. I could hear the Wildings at their camp outside.

All I wanted was my mother but she was already dead.

All I wanted was my father who I might never see again.

All I wanted was home.


	20. Chapter 20

Several days later, we arrived at Winterfell; all the warmth, happiness Sansa had said radiated from it had dried up long ago.

A once great castle had now been reduced to a collection of various states of ruin. The walls and glass gardens were the only parts in satisfactory condition, and only because they were a necessity for survival in a winter wilderness.

Lord Massey had been acting as castellan, and had tried his best to adapt to Northern customs, even though he is still one of the most Southern men I have ever met. His wife, Asha, was both a valuable asset to him, but also a handicap. House Greyjoy was still blamed for the downfall of Winterfell, only being overshadowed by House Bolton.

She waited for us in the Great Hall, sitting at one of the long tables with furs wrapped around her. Across from her were two people I thought I'd never see again, and a few others that seemed vaguely familiar.

Ser Andrew Estermont was one of the few people in our extended family that my father seemed to more or less get along with fairly easily; Ser Andrew's father, Ser Lomas Estermont, was my father's uncle. Of all his sister's children, my father was the only one Ser Lomas ever seemed to connect with. I have heard that its because he felt my father was the most wounded by his sister's, my grandmother's, passing.

Where Renly and Robert were connected to the forests of the Stormlands, my father was connected to the seas, even after he witnessed its wrath kill his parents. Though the Baratheon fury pulsed in his veins, compared to his brothers, there were significant traces of Estermont, a house connected to the sea more so than land.

And as I looked upon my father's cousin, I realized how similar he looked to them. Ser Andrew was not as tall but his figure veered toward gaunt, and his mouth showed more of a natural inclination to scowl instead of the warm smile I remember Renly and Robert always had. The warmth Gendry always had. The warmth Edric almost always had.

Looking at Edric as he slowly, cautiously walked towards me, all I could think was, "What did they do to you?"

His eyes treated everyone in the party with total suspicion, darting this way and that, his fingers almost itching for the sword still rendered harmless in its sheath at his side. His skin was tan and his hair was dry and roughly cut. The baby faced boy that lived in the same dreams Renly had was gone.

As soon as Sansa made her way to the front of the group, Edric was first to drop the knee, followed by Ser Andrew. Asha stayed seated but bowed her head respectfully, though tension was clearly already building between the two women; the reasons would bubble to the surface soon enough.

"My name is Ser Andrew of House Estermont. This is Edric, my ward."

"He's father's cousin," I interrupted, my voice barely audible, "and Edric's my cousin."

"We come of way of Lys; Lord Davos thought it was best to offer our services here for the time being."

"Yes, of course. Any family of my husband is also my own, and will always be welcomed here as long as I have a say in it." She then shot Asha a look I couldn't quite decipher, making Asha shift uncomfortably in her seat. "You must be Lady Massey. I've heard so much about you from your husband and Lord Snow."

Lord Massey went to stand behind his wife, placing his hands on her shoulders. I don't know if the gesture was done in reassurance or as a reminder of how things were.

Their marriage was what I considered a true political marriage, right down to the defiance that could be seen in Asha's eyes.

"Winterfell rejoices in having its Lady call it home again." If it weren't for Massey's fingers curling into her shoulders, I would have taken her sentiment as sincere. "Your Grace," was added as an afterthought.

"It has always been my home, Lady Massey, no matter how hard others tried to make it not so."

"Asha," Alys dared to interrupt, "The Queen and the Princess have had a long journey."

"Ser Andrew, may you escort us to our rooms? I wish to have a word with you. And Lord Massey later later if his duties permit."

"Of course, Your Grace."

As we made our way through gloom and chill of the halls and passageways of Winterfell, Edric took my hand, just like he would when we were little children. "I thought about you everyday, you know." I could feel Alys's eyes watching us, but I didn't care. "I'm sorry about your mother," he whispered.

Edric was the first person to ever offer condolences concerning her death that truly meant them. He, of all people; she was one of the reasons he was sent to Essos to begin with.


	21. Chapter 21

"Hotspring water runs throughout most of the walls. The smaller the room the better." Edric put his ear against the wall and motioned me to follow. The stone was warm, and I could just barely hear the sounds of running water. "Be careful though; there's some spots that might as well burn you. But not in this room," Edric quickly reassured me.

The Stark children used to sleep in these rooms, but all traces of them had been burned and sacked away long ago.

There were no tapestries. There were no finely crafted chairs or golden candle holders. There were no hunting trophies. The only remnants of the life once was were in the crypts, and no one ever dared to venture down there; the ghosts of the North roamed freely now.

"There's a library, or what's left of it, not that far down the hall. I remember you always reading, and they have those boring books you like." Boring to Edric was whatever a maester might make you read during a lesson. I remember Pylos's patience being tested more than once during Edric's brief stint as one of his pupils. All Edric ever wanted to learn about was the glories of war; he never cared about the consequences, unless there was a dragon involved.

Edric was like his father in that way; I can only imagine how fidgety Robert would get while old Maester Cressen was trying to teach him maths, and my father, even as a child, grinding his teeth in reaction to the antics of his older brother. Robert would start behaving perfectly, of course, when their mother would come to check on them, though he probably prayed that she would end the lessons early for whatever reason.

I like to think that she would specifically ask about my father's progress and she would smile as Cressen beamed about his perfect numbers and recitations of histories and laws.

I like to think that she made my father feel like he mattered and that she was so, so proud of him.

A pair of breeches and a shirt were laid out on the bed.

"Lyra must of left them there; she's right about them keeping you warmer than your skirts, but I told her you weren't interested in sword fighting and things like that."

"I never knew you knew me so well," I let slip without any regard for Edric's feelings or intentions. He looked at me like Robert would look at my father, which made my sympathies quickly erode. "Until Queen Sansa gives my father a son, I am his heir, and we are at war. Good heirs during times of war make themselves interested in sword fighting and things like that. And they read boring books so they can learn from the mistakes of their predecessors."

"Forgive me, Princess. I forgot my place," he muttered as he shifted on his feet, staring at the doorway.

"I might be the Princess but I am still your cousin. And like true cousins, we both share the fault of saying things we shouldn't when we're tired and hungry and have been traveling for what seems like forever." He broke out in a smile then, and everything was quickly forgiven. He was like his father also in that regard.

As he went to the fireplace to place another log upon the fire, "The Queen...she isn't what I was expecting."

I took a seat on the bed, running my fingers through the furs. "What were you expecting?"

"One of the Mormont women, there were several here when we first arrived, was telling us about her. What they remembered about her."

"They were basically telling you their conjectures."

"What?" Edric could be rather thick at times.

"They were telling you how they thought she would turn out based on the last they saw of her."

"Do you want to hear what she said or not?" Edric, impatiently, took a seat next to me on the bed. "They remembered her as a little girl who loved to sing songs and pick flowers who was on her way to being the perfect lady. Her stitches were always perfect, her dancing suited for the highest courts. Her dream was to marry a lord and have lots and lots of babies. But then the prince came and swept her off her feet and she was gone, never to be seen again."

"Are you disappointed then that she isn't out of one of your songs?" I was surprised he didn't find a way to include a dragon.

"She's a nervous thing. Even your mother was never like that."

"She's not nervous."

"Yes. She. Is. The way her eyes darted around. Looked like she was going to cry at any moment, too. And her fingers were always twitching."

I hadn't noticed any of these things. "Are you sure she wasn't just tired. The voyage was very hard for her; she was never meant for the sea you know."

"You just can't see it because you've been around her so long. And you probably blinded yourself on purpose to it anyway."

"Don't say that."

"I'll say what I want, Shireen, because it is the truth." Family tells hard truths. "Didn't you hear about what happened to her direwolf? King Robert had it killed, her own father carried it out. The direwolves are the Old Starks, the old Kings of Winter, reincarnated. They die when their owners die, and vice versa; when King Robb lost his head, his direwolf lost his as well."

"But The Queen is still alive."

"For now. Until your father has her offed off. Perhaps Jon Snow will be the Stark to carry it out."

"He would never do that. He loves her."

"He loved Renly and that didn't stop him." Edric had never gotten over the death of Renly. "And how do you know he ever loved her? The things I've heard from the folk up here tell a much more different story."

"Like what?"

"That she was coerced into the annulment of her marriage to Tyrion Lannister. And that when the walls of King's Landing collapsed during her Namesday feast, she even helped him escape with a promise that he would take her to Casterly Rock."

"Tyrion escaped?"

"That's one of the many things she's discussing with our father's cousin and the Lord without any actual lands." Supposedly, Massey had been promised Harrenhal. "And I believe I heard one where she seduced your father only so she wouldn't be shipped off to Dorne and killed or something like that."

"You know, its strange how all of that seems like propaganda."

"So?"

"Edric, its all lies aimed at gullible idiots like you."

"I'm not gullible, and I'm not an idiot."

"Really," I said as I made my way to the door, "Remember when they told you the reason you couldn't open any windows at Storm's End during a storm was because you'd let all the magic out and it would fall into the sea killing everyone?"

"What does that have to do with anything?"

I slammed the door in his face, and immediately went to Sansa's room unannounced. She sat at table with Alys and a few other women, a steaming tea cup in front her.

I remember her pushing it away as soon as she saw me, "Is everything alright, Shireen."

"Edric's still an idiot."

She gave me a small smile, "Most boys are."

"Most men are," Alys added, though with far less humor.

* * *

Please review. They help keep me young.


	22. Chapter 22

"No, you're still holding it wrong." Lyra took the bow and demonstrated what she considered good technique. Again. "You need to quit tensing up so much. Animals can sense it you know."

"I'm not a hunter," I mumbled through teeth that were on the verge chattering.

"I wasn't talking about rabbits," she muttered as she shot an arrow, narrowly missing the center of the target.

Lyra was somewhat mature for her age, and somewhat not. She was of generally good temperament, thoughtful, and kind, but if you did something to get on her bad side, she would hold you to it for a very long time. Even with her stocky frame and broad shoulders, when she smiled, she emitted a radiance not even a lady of Highgarden could compete with.

Edric, if I ever bothered to ask him, would have probably agreed.

He sat on a pile of stones nearby, his teeth chattering but his eyes were always on her.

And then there was me, a girl in breeches with chattering teeth wearing so many layers that when Lyra made me race her back to inside the castle I would often need to catch my breath.

She handed the bow back to me without even a glance.

I took my position. I tried to relax. Just as I began to pull back the...

"Maybe she'd do better with a battle axe," Edric called out, and then proceeded to bite into an apple, one of the last apples in Winterfell's food stores.

I let go and the arrow overshot, flying over the target and crashing into the stone wall behind it, my shoulders immediately slouching in defeat.

"No slouching," Lyra scolded, forcing my shoulders back to proper form. She turned to Edric, "And you keep your mouth shut while the Princess is taking aim."

"You do know battles aren't fought in silence? I'm doing her a service."

"No wonder the Red Woman wanted to give him to the fires," she muttered as she grabbed my leg to alter my stance. "Though his thick skull does have a point."

"See?" Edric beamed in temporary glory.

Lyra ignored him, "We need to get your arms stronger before you'd be able to handle any sword properly, let alone a battle axe."

She stepped back as I prepared to take aim again.

"The King fights alongside his men, and even his enemy respects him for it. And whoever his successor is, they'll be expected to do the same."

"So, did you hit the target?" Sansa asked before taking a spoonful of the rabbit stew, and immediately fighting with her body to keep it down.

The illness that had affected her on our voyage North had periodically returned to afflict her since, and due to Winterfell having no Maester, Alys tried her best to comfort her. She urged Sansa to take a sip of her water; it had been days since she was able to stomach any mead.

There was no fever, and only brief moments of fatigue.

I myself had not felt well for several days, but I knew it was more due to Lyra's attempts to make me, "a proper Princess of Dragonstone." I had muscle cramps and fatigue, and my breasts were sore from wrapping them too tight.

Asha kept a very close eye on Sansa during the entire meal in the Great Hall, though I could not sense malicious intent, just plan curiosity. Lord Massey believed her state was due to the stresses of taking on so many duties so suddenly as acting Lady of Winterfell (no one dared bring up her status as Queen of the North).

If Massey was put out about no longer being castellan, he didn't dare show or express it. He might have been a smiling idiot, but he wasn't an idiot; crossing the Queen was the same as crossing the King, and he didn't dare do that.

"She did hit the target," Lyra decided to answer on my behalf, "technically."

"It bounced off," I said at almost a whisper, my face going red.

"Like father, like daughter," Ser Andrew added, and by the look on his face, he didn't mean to say it aloud, which he quickly tried to remedy. "Your uncle King Robert never had the patience for it, didn't see the reason for it when you could use a crossbow just as well. For hunting, at least."

"What about Renly?" I asked.

"During the Siege he was instructed at length. The frustration of trying to hit the target each time was enough to make that little boy not think about starving to death. But, like all Baratheons it seems, as soon as a sword was placed in his hand, that's all he would ever need."

I could hear Asha snickering at this (gods know her reason), but she suddenly stopped and began shifting on the bench in mild discomfort.

"Is everything alright, Lady Massey?" Sansa inquired.

"Just a restless babe using my organs for target practice." Massey put his hand on her stomach and rubbed circles where he felt the baby kick.

Sansa's reaction to it all was odd. The look on her face, I had only seen one person's face before: Cersei. It was a failed attempt at a calm blank facade to cover up a potent mix of anger, jealousy, sadness.

The Queen abruptly stood up and excused herself from the table. Alys watched her until she was out of sight, and so did Ser Andrew; we all did.

I swear I heard someone whisper, "Poor Queen Sansa."

Before drifting off in the sea of furs called my bed, I went to see if Sansa was still awake.

After Ser Andrew and Edric had retired for the evening, I asked Lord Massey if there had been any more news of my father or the war in general.

"There was a raven this morning, but I'm afraid it was all more or less the same as the last one."

Perhaps if I had just met Lord Massey I would have believed this lie.

Sansa sat on her knees in front of the fire, fingers seeming to dig into the floor, hair flowing wild, swollen eyes staring into the flames. Her body shuddered with every sob.

I felt a rush of air as Alys flew past me to come to Sansa's aid.

"Shireen, go to your room," she ordered as she tried to pry Sansa away from the fire.

"It wasn't suppose to be like this," she kept wailing over and over as Alys held her close and stroked her hair like any mother would do trying to comfort a child.

Lyra was then beside me and tugged on my hand.

As she walked me to my room, I asked her if she knew how bad the war was going.

"The thaw they thought was coming was false, and the Tyrell navy has taken Dragonstone. Storm's End has not fallen, but others in the Stormlands have. And the forces meant to protect us from the Others are being sent south." She hesitated before continuing, "If these forces are not restored, Queen Sansa will be forced to severe all ties between the North and the Iron Throne."

"What will happen to me if she does?"

"You will become a hostage of the Winter Throne."


	23. Chapter 23

Everyone waited for a raven to come. They waited. And waited. And waited.

"Either someone is shooting our ravens down. Or, they're shooting down any coming from the South."

"What if he's dead?" I asked Ser Andrew, not even bothering to look up from the book of house sigils he had been instructing me on for the last hour.

"He's not, and don't you dare say anything like that in front of your stepmother, especially now."

"What's wrong with her?"

Ser Andrew drew his mouth into a scowl, proving he was related to my father.

"I don't know," he calmly answered.

"You have an idea, though..."

"Shireen," he said thoroughly exasperated, "what would your father say about speculation?"

"Any fool can speculate."

Ser Andrew nodded, "And neither you, nor I, are fools. Any thoughts I have on the Queen are not speculations, only notions that I have perceived."

"That's still speculating."

"No, it is not."

"Well, what do you perceive then?"

"That this isn't a proper line of conversation for a princess to engage in when she's supposed to be learning the House sigils of the Riverlands."

"But what about when the lesson is over, which is soon?"

He rubbed his temples, "Then we will move on to another lesson."

"About what?"

"Something that can be of use in times like this."

* * *

The servants always made starting a fire look so easy. Then again, I never saw them having to start primitive little fires in a snow covered courtyard.

"For a follower of R'hllor, you're pretty terrible at this," Edric smirked.

"I was never allowed to start fires. Mother was afraid I'd get hurt."

"So you worshipped something they told you could hurt you?"

"Edric..." Ser Andrew was interrupted by a group escorting a man in chains towards the gates. Sansa was among them, as so was Massey.

She wore her hair in a tight bun with a simple bronze chain circlet, and I could tell she was wearing breeches and knee-high boots underneath her cloak of homespun and fur. And the way she flexed her fingers at her side in her leather gloves...

I suddenly knew what was going on. I had seen this scene play out once before at Dragonstone.

"What did the man do?" I asked Ser Andrew.

"Things terrible enough that warrants the Queen to stand next to the man she chose to swing the blade; if she was trained in sword she'd be the one doing it."

"Lyra wants me to learn that eventually. How to use a sword."

"That might become difficult if we all become hostages, well, if most of us become hostages."

"What do you mean, Edric?"

"No one is becoming hostages anytime soon," Ser Andrew attempted to reassure, "the raven will come, and this will all be sorted out before you know it."


	24. Chapter 24

Sansa retired for the evening immediately after the execution.

My father was the same way, from what I can remember.

Taking a life in any pre-meditated fashion is the most exhaustive course of action anyone can take. Until their final breath, until the final heartbeat, the doubt in your decision builds and builds, no matter how strong your conviction. Even the sense of relief that follows their release from this world is draining.

I know this from personal experience.

I watched Sansa take off her boots and saw how rogue splatterings of blood transferred to her wrists, her fingers.

"We sent a raven to the King for the man was wanted by the throne. He was wanted by your father." I could see her flex her toes through her wool socks.

"Did father want him dead?"

She paused before answering, "Your father would have passed the same judgement, though with a few minor variations."

"What do you mean?"

Sansa gave me a long, hard look and a sad smile. "When you're older, Shireen."

"Did Father send a raven back?"

"We have received no ravens from him since we've been here."

"But the reports..."

"They've all been of a secondhand nature, rifled with exaggerations and miscalculations." She stood and went to the water basin to wash the blood from her hands. "Massey didn't want to alarm you, but to continue would be doing more harm than good."

"If Father died, we would know, yes?"

"Even the Dragon Woman would hear of it, wherever in the Seven Hells she may be. If he dies, the Baratheon claim dies with him."

"What about me?"

"You, sweet Shireen, are a girl that deserves all the happiness and good things in this life. I promised your father that I would protect you, treat you as my own blood, watch you grow and guide you when necessary. I made this promise to him before we were even wed, and I will keep this until death decides to take me."

I sat on her bed, confused by all the possible meanings of her words.

"I also made a promise that I would do nothing to condemn you to the horrors that I went through. And sitting you on that chair of rusty swords now would do exactly that. And no child deserves that fate. None. Not a single one. No child of his. No child of..."

She wrung her hands in a way that made my own joints just ache watching her. I went to her and calmly held them between my own. Tears tried to escape her eyes but she sniffed them back.

"You've had a long day," I tried to reassure her, "you'll feel better after you've rested a bit. It seemed to help father, at least, after passing such judgements."

Her hands slipped away and she playfully touched my chin, "When you are older, if you wish it, you will be a great ruler, whatever your dominion is. Tomorrow, you will begin accompanying me during my duties. And, and when we're reunited with your father, you will accompany him."

"Will he allow it?"

With a mischievous smirk, "Your father is a good king. Good kings listen to their queens when it comes to matters like this."

* * *

Sleep did not come easy to me, but not due to the words of my stepmother.

If anything, they gave me more certainty of my future; Sansa would not let anything bad happen to me. She would take care of me, provide for me, teach me, empower me. I would not become a hostage like the others, and I even began to doubt that even they would truly be hostages.

With Sansa's guidance and Lyra's instruction, I could make my father proud and restore all honor to my house.

My stomach cramps were unusual for I had not trained that day with Lyra, and I had not wrapped my breasts so there was no reason for their soreness.

When I went to use my chamber pot, that is when I first saw the blood.

My mother had discussed with me what it meant to flower not long before her death; it was both a nuisance and a curse, at least in her opinion.

She was irritated that I was such a late bloomer. She feared that I was perhaps infertile, that the only child she could give my father was one that could give no grandchildren.

I wished she was with me so she could see that she wasn't a failure again. I could even almost hear her giving thanks to the Lord of Light. But when I began to hear her discussing possible suitors, the churning of my stomach brought me back to reality.

After cleaning up what mess there was (thankfully no blood was found on my gown or bedding), and finding some cloth, I emptied my chamber pot and decided to go to Sansa. That's what girls were suppose to do in times like this. Seek the comfort of your mother, or a woman that might as well be.

She looked so peaceful asleep for once, her left hand resting on her stomach, while her right seemed to stretch out and reach for someone that should have been there but wasn't.

I stood at the foot of her bed and called out her name like I used to to my mother when I dreamt of dragons devouring me when I was little.

Groggily, she lifted the covers and furs and I curled up against her. She felt different than when I used to curl up against her on the voyage North. Though she still looked thin, she felt thicker.

"I thought you were going to flower soon," she mumbled.

"Does this make me a woman now?"

"No, not quite, but almost."

"Am I going to be married off now?"

"No," she declared, now more fully awake, "and if your father even considers it for a moment I'll kill him."

"But what about his council?"

"I won't tell them if you won't."

"We're going to keep it a secret?"

"As much as we can." Yawning, she took my hand, "For your safety, we must. With the ability to give life comes another way your father's enemies can hurt you, hurt him. Men are cruel, though some women try to outdo them."

"Will you tell Father?"

"Only when I see him lay where you lay now. And most likely after I tell him a secret of my own, though with every passing day I fear everyone will learn of it before he does."

"Is it bad?"

Smiling, "No, it is not bad. Some may think it is, but its not. Its a blessing, though the gods could have managed better timing. Though, I am forever grateful that they finely found me worthy this time. Twice now they've recalled their gift. "

I stared at her. Her smile got wider. She moved my hand to her stomach and my eyes went wide when I could feel a defined bump.

"You're going to be a sister."


End file.
